


From Raw Materials

by unicornsandbutane



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Art History, Choking, Discussions of sex work, Italian Baroque, M/M, Religious Discussion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Roman Catholicism, Slow Burn, descriptions of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2019-06-11 03:31:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 82,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15306516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornsandbutane/pseuds/unicornsandbutane
Summary: Rome, 1605: A Cardinal desperate to secure his legacy or else lose everything is introduced to a man who is reportedly the most skilled artist alive in Rome, and bemoans the fact that his fate lies in the charcoal-smudged hands of such a miserable creature. But, with tensions building within the Cardinalate, he must find a way to work with the tempestuous and anti-social painter, even as Rome threatens to crumble around them.(This is the baroque AU I've been laboring over for months. Please see notes for more info!)





	1. David and Goliath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blue_crow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_crow/gifts).



> ADVANCE NOTICE: Names have been changed because "Armitage Hux" does not sound like the name of a man born in a small fishing village on the western coast of Italy in 1571. This might take some getting used to, but I hope you will bear with me long enough for that. 
> 
> A KEY: 
> 
> General Armitage Hux becomes "Cardinal Deacon Armando Uccello". 'Armando' means 'soldier' and 'Uccello' means 'bird', so: war bird. Also, 'Hux' comes from Anglo-Saxon 'Ucca', and I thought the two were similar enough.
> 
> Kylo Ren becomes "Camilo Reni". 'Camilo' means 'temple servant', and 'Reni' means 'reborn'.
> 
> Supreme Leader Snoke becomes "Cardinal Bishop Scipione Sforza". 'Scipione' means 'scepter', and 'Sforza' means 'force'. 
> 
> Thanks for your patience!

Palazzo Suprema, Quirinale, Rome, 1605

Some wings of the grand palazzo were still under construction. Beyond the nearly full-length windows, the gardens were being groomed to perfection by teams of day-laborers, all sweating and shouting in the afternoon sun. It was much cooler in the well-appointed corridors of the estate, with its red marble columns and slate tile floor, but Armando Uccello was more aware of what he couldn't see: the ruins of Constantine's baths, those crumbling bricks forming a labyrinthine catacomb under his feet, beneath the main floor of his mentor's ever-expanding estate. He imagined that, to visitors, the great Emperor's footsteps still echoed in these halls, and that Cardinal Bishop Scipione Maria Sforza del Summimundo had chosen this spot, at the base of Rome's most commanding hill and with a view of the papal piazza, for a reason.

The floor absorbed more sound than those of the polished marble chapels to which he'd become accustomed. Enough so, he didn't hear the approach of another Cardinal until the man was nearly upon him. Uccello bowed his head in respect.

"Venerable brother," he said, as was customary. The other Cardinal only nodded, without looking at him, and scurried past. Uccello straightened his posture, grit his teeth. For men of God, some of these Cardinals were remarkably uncharitable, stingy even with common courtesy. Well. The rest of the College could think what they liked about him, for now. His cap was as red as theirs were.

He'd walked the halls of the palazzo's main building so many times, the staff didn't even bother guiding him in and out. He found his own way to Cardinal Bishop Sforza's nymphaeum, where the man himself sat, canopied by a statue of Daphne turning into a laurel. The dappled light reflecting from the central pool painted fiery stripes and ghastly shadows on the Cardinal Bishop's sunken face.

"Your Most Reverend Eminence," Uccello intoned, bowing slightly. Technically, the address was outdated, ever since Uccello had been created a Cardinal Deacon. But, he knew it was by Sforza's hand that he was granted his deaconry, and he knew he had to mind his place.

The Cardinal Bishop raised a knobbly hand and waved him over, wordlessly inviting Uccello to sit beside him in the vacant chair. Uccello sank into the leather seat, smoothed his robe.

"I've heard you've garnered yourself a place in the Basilica Santa Maria Maggiore. A blank wall, to make your mark," the old man wheezed.

"Yes," Uccello answered. He could have started small, but the rest of the College needed to be shown he wasn't going anywhere. He wanted them to remember him, every time they walked the halls of that chapel, one of the Pope's own patriarchal churches. He wanted it staring down upon the next Roman Jubilee, so thousands of pilgrims would see it as they did their visitations of the seven Basilicas. He folded his hands in his lap.

"One wonders how you managed that," Sforza commented blithely. His blue eyes were keen and sharp, watching a small black bird perching on the outstretched arm of a statue of Apollo across the pool. He didn’t mention the chapel in that same Basilica bearing his family name, nor the works by the celebrated Michelangelo therein. He didn’t have to. Uccello was well aware of both.

Uccello could only make a noncommittal gesture. Other Cardinals, coming from noble families, may have had old networks with each other, may have had their sisters marrying into one another's families all over Europe, may have each one of them a relation to some king somewhere. They might already have chapels named for some old relation like Sforza did. Uccello had none of this, and if he had any sisters he likely would never know it. But, he had his own familial network in the Eternal City, one comprised of beggars and whores, doxies and dogsbodies and drunkards. They were his family, on his mother's side, and they knew who was on the take, and who had secrets to keep. Sforza turned his head to regard him, a cool, knowing look in his eyes, but he said nothing.

The bird hopped up to Apollo's head, then down to his marble shoulder. Uccello wondered what the damned thing could be looking for. Sforza leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers.

"Have you already an artist in mind?" he asked, offhand, in the sort of way that made Uccello feel that he was being tested.

"A few," Uccello replied. It was partially true; he'd been to the major Basilicas and a number of noble homes, and had a running list in his mind of what artists were in fashion, who had commissioned whom. Out of these, though, he had no clear favorite.

Sforza watched the bird picking lichen from the carved drapery of the statue's garment for another moment.

"Camilo Reni," the old man said.

"Pardon?"

"There is not a painter in Rome, in all the world, to match his skill. Do you remember Lucas Sanvitale?"

Uccello didn't, but Cardinal Bishop Sforza went on anyway, without Uccello's reply.

"People said he was a gifted painter, too, but he accused the Church of excess, said the Cardinalate cared more for the lining of our own pockets than the glorification of God. He was exiled, of course. I believe he's in Perugia now in some Franciscan monastery. That would make him happy. He thinks himself such a martyr."

Uccello grit his teeth. There was nothing so grating as a living man who believed himself to be a saint, who made much ado over his own piety as if to hang a halo above his own head. He dug his nails into his palms and waited for Sforza to come to a point.

"His workshop was like a kicked hive after that. All of his little disciples went buzzing around, trying to get commissions. All but one." His eyes cut across to Uccello, willing him to speak.

"Is that the painter you're suggesting I contact?" Uccello kept his eyes focused on the bird, scraping, scraping at the gathered moss on Apollo's shoulder.

"He went by a different name then," Sforza explained casually. "He doesn't wish to be associated with that sanctimonious fool Sanvitale, and for good reason. Reni has surpassed him in every way. I'm considering hiring him for a fresco in my personal chapel... but if you want to contact him first, so you can have your painting before the feast day in August, then, by all means."

Uccello hadn't thought of that. He was embarrassed to admit it, and so, made no outward indication that it hadn't been his plan all along.

"That's gracious of you," he said instead. Already he was imagining it, the /populi Romani/ all clamoring for the spectacle of hundreds of thousands of white flower petals drifting down from the coffered ceiling of the Basilica into the altar space, to mimic the miraculous snow of legend. During the festivities, they'd see the piece Uccello had commissioned, and be shocked and awed by its beauty. They'd be moved. They'd return again and again to the Basilica to see it. Then, ten days later when His Holiness the Pope presided over the Feast of the Assumption of Mary, surely the majority of the Princes of the Church would be in attendance. The College couldn't ignore him forever. The bird, finally, dropped off of the statue, swooped and flapped up over the far roof and away.

"Where can I find this Camilo Reni?"

Sforza gave a thin smile, and told him where to go.

\----------

Having sent a letter ahead by courier and received no response, Uccello resolved to visit the artist's studio in person.

It was a fair distance from any of the places he frequented, and Uccello was not a strong rider, but by mid-morning on the third day after his meeting with Cardinal Bishop Sforza, Armando Uccello arrived on the doorstep of Camilo Reni, prepared to make an offer. This was new to him, and the weight of silver scudi at his hip seemed a heavy thing indeed. He tied his horse, climbed the stairs, knocked at an unassuming door.

/How does an artist live?/ he thought. /Does he hire someone to keep his rooms? Does he send out for his shopping? Does he hole up in his studio as a hermitage, worshiping at the altar of his craft, or is he married, making of his workshop a merry home?/ Uccello had not spent much time among artists. That would change, if all went according to plan. He rapped smartly on the door, squared his shoulders, prepared what he would say.

He listened.

He waited.

There was no answer.

He was beginning to think Sforza had given the wrong address. He knocked again, louder this time, and then there was a loud thud from within. At least someone was home. Silence, for several long moments, and then the door rattled. Uccello heard cursing through the door, and frowned, but then the door was yanked open with great violence, and got stuck. It was open just enough that Uccello could see the face of a man peering out. His black hair was a tangled mess. His shirt was undone. His eyes were intense and unslept, and there was a long scar running over the right. He wasn't wearing any breeches. He didn't extend any greeting.

"I am Cardinal Deacon Armando Uccello," Uccello stated at last, noticing that there was a paint-splattered drop cloth on the floor inside the room, and that it was rumpled up under the door, which was likely the reason for the door being stuck. Uccello presumed he was in the right place, by the presence of the stained canvas floor cover alone. The man still said nothing. "Did you receive my note? I sent it by courier the other day," Uccello asked, watching the man's face for recognition and instead being drawn to the way the man's eyes glanced to the side, where a stack of unopened mail balanced precariously on a small table in the hall, by the door. "I see. Well. I am interested in commissioning you for a piece." The man blinked at him, sullen as ever. "For the Basilica Santa Maria Maggiore." At that, finally, the man's eyebrows quirked. "Might I come in to discuss terms, or have you taken a vow of silence?"

This was a rude thing to say, and Uccello knew it, but he gathered this man was somewhat lacking in social graces. The artist (for who else could he be) stared at him for another long moment and then closed the door in his face.

Uccello drew himself up to his full height and was just about ready to start pounding the door again when it swung open, wider this time, the drop cloth having been rolled partially aside. Uccello lowered his hand. The artist moved into the room, and Uccello followed, closing the door behind himself.

"You are, I assume, Master Camilo Reni?" he asked, as the man plucked a pair of breeches from the end of a narrow, unmade bed and sat to tug them on. Uccello turned his eyes instead to a large charcoal drawing on paper tacked to the wall. The subject was a still life, arranged on a table nearby, comprised of a helmet full of overripe fruit, an hourglass, a burnt-down candle, and a single stem of white blossoms, (orange or lemon, perhaps?) slightly crushed, with the leaves punched through by insect holes. Sunlight filtered in to illuminate the setup from overhead, and when Uccello looked up, he noticed a hole had been cut in the ceiling. There was a tarp nailed alongside it, as if to make a temporary cover. Uccello couldn't imagine the cloth would keep out the rain, and supposed the artist was lucky it had been unseasonably warm of late.

"I'd appreciate if you didn't touch any of that," the artist said, and Uccello was somewhat startled by his voice-- not just because this was the first thing he'd said, but because of its quality, too. Deep, sonorous, and a little stilted, as if he'd prefer not to say anything at all. Still, the man continued: "I stayed up to catch the shadows at first light, and have only been abed a few hours. I'd prefer not to repeat the exercise."

Despite this frank statement of the labors that had gone into the drawing, it looked almost effortless. The curves of a peach, the quick, reflective shine on the helmet, looked as if they'd been done each in a single, confident stroke. The shadows were deep and ponderous.

"Who is this for?" Uccello asked. He wondered if it was anyone he knew, if he'd be competing with anyone for the artist's time.

"It isn't important," Reni replied, and Uccello didn't know if he meant the piece, or its destination. "So you're a Cardinal, and you want to put something in a major Basilica. Why haven't I heard your name before?"

Uccello frowned. Reni hadn't offered him a chair, and indeed he himself sat on the bed. There was a stool standing before an empty easel, and Uccello took it, absent of another choice.

"I presume that would be because I haven't commissioned you before," Uccello stated archly. He felt a bit ridiculous with his feet on the rung of the stool, poking out from under his cassock. Like a child at his slate.

"You haven't commissioned anyone before," Reni corrected. His heavy eyebrows added emphasis, pulling up on the word anyone as if they could hurl that pointed word across the room.

"How do you know that?" Uccello asked. Did everyone have to go through all of this before paying someone to make a painting?

"I would have heard of you, if you had," Reni retorted, as if it were that simple. "Ergo. You must have only just come into the means to do so. Perhaps only recently created a Cardinal, and thus only now granted the lucrative positions such an office avails. But, instead of ordering smaller devotional works, such as to decorate a home or a private chapel as other men of means might, your first commission is for one of the largest Basilicas in Rome. I wager you have something to prove."

Uccello felt his lips go tight, struggled to maintain a neutral expression. 'I am a man of God,' he reminded himself, looking as ever to his faith to guide him.

"I won't bore you with Vatican politics," he quipped, and something wicked sparked in the artist's eyes. "But to put you on the right track, I'm not interested in a small devotional painting. I want something that commands a space."

"Big, then."

"Yes."

"Dramatic. Important-looking."

"That's the idea."

"Almost certainly biblical."

"Well that should go without saying. Though I suppose, a story from the histories of the Saints could also work. What about the Miracle of the Snow, since it's going into the Basilica Santa Maria Maggiore? Sometimes they call it Our Lady of the Snows..." Uccello was thinking about those deep, rich shadows Reni drew into his still life, imagining a single shaft of light falling on a patch of sparkling snow, surrounded by darkness, with John the patrician and his wife kneeling just at the edge of the light, their faces penitent, their hands clasped in prayer to look upon this miracle of snow in the height of summer, and the Holy Virgin appearing as an angelic vision in the golden sunlight, pointing to where the couple should build a church in her honor.

"Sentimental nonsense," Reni scoffed. "And an apocryphal story, I'd bet."

"Betting is a vice," Uccello said, in lieu of making any proclamations in favor of miracles, "and vice and sin go hand in hand."

"A truth I know well," the artist mused, scratching his jaw. His thumb brushed over that scar, which, now that Uccello looked at it, continued down his throat. How did a man who survived a strike like that fail to see the value of a miracle? He wondered exactly how Reni got that scar, which should by rights make him grotesque but curiously did not, but the man distracted him by bending to pull a ledger from under his bed. "So," Reni said, scrabbling for a stick of black chalk with a hard edge. His fingers, Uccello noticed, were filthy. "I remember the Basilica having rather high walls." He scribbled out a few figures, licked the charcoal, wrote some more. "I expect the size you're looking for would run..." He summed his figures, drew a quick circle around the answer. "Approximately three hundred scudi."

"Three hundred? You're having me on. You think that because you're the first person I've come to--"

Reni held up a hand. "It's a fair price," he stated flatly. "Especially if, as I'm guessing you will, you want it finished before the Feast of the Assumption. I am not a swindler, Cardinal."

The look Reni leveled at him made Uccello want to throw up his hands.

"Fine," he said. "What do you say to half now and half upon completion?"

"We haven't even discussed the subject yet," the artist reminded him.

"Apparently you think the depiction of a miracle is sentimental nonsense. I'm sure you can come up with an appropriate subject that isn't beneath you." Uccello got to his feet. "I shall return in two weeks' time to look into your progress. Please answer the courier next time. For now..." he reached into his purse and pulled out six small bags. Each contained 25 silver scudi, and he told Reni so.

"Don't think that just because you're a man of the cloth I won't count these," Reni warned.

"You are welcome to do so. In fact, you have two weeks in which to finish your accounting. I will see you then." Uccello straightened his clothing, nodded at Reni, and took his leave.

\----------

Three days later, Shrove Tuesday, Uccello borrowed Sforza's koci-wagon and hitched his own horse into the harness to ride north. He had no desire to gorge on sweets before the Lenten fast, and no particular love for drink. The lightweight carriage would carry him to his only indulgence, and the driver, he was sure, was paid not to complain about the distance.

After a few hours rattling along old, pitted roads-- Uccello had begun to think that the dirt and rock byways hadn't been maintained since the Etruscan wars-- the driver slowed the horse as they approached the gate of a small fishing village on the coast. There were no guardsmen, but the arrival of Sforza's coach, a noble affair with its driver in livery, did cause something of a stir. Uccello did not know what these people would think of him, whether they'd think he was putting on airs by traveling so. When he stepped out of the carriage, allowing the driver to lead his horse to a trough, he almost immediately heard the shout he'd been waiting for:

"Armando! Why do you never write ahead to say you're coming to visit?"

The woman, holding up her skirts in one consternated fist, squinted at Uccello against the afternoon sun. Her dark ringlets were more shot through with grey than Uccello remembered.

"And deprive you of the surprise? I wouldn't," he replied, bowing to her, has he had done only for holy men and the Blessed Virgin in the last year. She reached out to him, and he thought for an unsettling moment she might embrace him as she had never done before, but instead she only brushed imaginary dirt from his shoulders, and he relaxed.

"Well," she said, back stiff, "shall we go see her, before the day wears on?"

She clasped her hands behind her back and began marching smartly toward a distant hill. The coachman caught Uccello's eye, but Uccello waved him off. They weren't going that far.

When the well-trodden dirt turned to grass, the woman tugged her wrap free from her chemise, unwound it from her neck to tie her hair up. The sun was high, and the sea air gave them little respite. Her dark skin shone with sweat, and Uccello hoped he wouldn't burn up. Years ago, when he was a boy and her hair was still a dark cascade over her shoulders, they had walked as pilgrims to Rome for the holy year. It had taken days, and Uccello was ashamed to admit he'd complained mightily throughout. His protestations grew only louder once he'd taken too much sun, and his face burned red as the robes of the Cardinals he'd seen for the first time when they finally made it to the Jubilee. Unlike other children his age, he didn't build up a protective tan in the salt spray. Instead, he'd always thought his appearance had remained as that of a tallow candle: tall, thin, and sallow, with an orange flame at the top. However, he'd come back from Rome speckled all over, so the village children had invented a different nickname for him: Uovo Uccello-- bird's egg. He grimaced, remembering it.

"Must you always make that face, Armando?" came the immediate chastisement. He didn't feel hurt by it. It was a comfort knowing that at least her way of fussing over him hadn't changed. They hiked up the grassy knoll, the wildflowers of early spring nodding in the sea breeze.

"I'm only thinking, can you really afford to take the time for this visit? Won't the village collapse if you're not there to hold everything together?" Uccello teased back, receiving a click of the tongue as answer. They'd nearly come to their destination.

They fell into silence as they neared the top of the hill. Alone against the perfect blue of the sky, was a rough-hewn stone. It had grown some lichen, and a cluster of blooming weeds squatted at the leeward side. There was no inscription, but Uccello stared at the simple rock all the same, reading its wind scars and patterns of plant growth like an epitaph.

"I could always have Fernando come up here, carve her name, at least. I know you had no love for one another as children, but he's grown into a fine stonemason."

Uccello shook his head, as he had done every time this subject came up. Her name had been somewhat infamous in the streets of Rome, before he was born-- he didn't want her remembered only by reputation. He had so few memories of her, as it was, and didn't want them conflated with all the stories he'd heard once he'd returned to the Eternal City, ten years old, taking a menial job in a noble house on the strength of the name of a father he'd never met. She hadn't told him much about him. Uccello had gleaned that she didn't know enough about the man to tell. He'd been in the army, which led her to name her only son Armando. This was all Uccello knew of his father. Of his mother, he remembered the sea green of her eyes, the pale moon of her face, her light blonde hair. He remembered her thin wrists, her high, startled laugh, and the confused, sort-of sad smile she'd given him when, as a young child, he'd asked if she and his father had been in love. She must have been thinking of the naïveté of children.

Turning toward the sea, he studied the profile of the woman who had raised him in his mother's stead. The two, this woman and his mother, could not be more different, but they'd been inseparable in the six years between Uccello's mother arriving in town and her death. When Uccello’s mother wobbled unsteadily through the gates of this small village, stopping there only because she was too pregnant to travel any further, Solana was already a de-facto mayor. They came from radically different circumstances, one, a pale undesirable from the gutters of Rome, the other a free Moor from the polished halls of Córdoba. Somehow, they’d come to an agreement, to raise Uccello up as well as they could. And so they had, in this tiny town at the edge of the world, until Uccello’s mother died and left Mama Solana to finish the job. She had the same set to her jaw and the same solidity to her stance then, as she did that Shrove Tuesday, standing atop a hill with Uccello grown into a man. The breeze ruffled the long grasses around their knees.

"Always good to see you, Mama Solana," Uccello said. Mama Solana smiled and closed her eyes to the sun.

\----------

It was early the following morning before Uccello returned to Rome, and he'd only slept fitfully in the coach. Still, he directed the coachman to return him to his apartment so he could change from his traveling cloak to his red cassock and mozzetta. He took special care in settling his zuccheto and three-pointed biretta on his head, combing his hair out of his face.

/Perhaps I should let my hair grow longer for once,/ he thought, knowing it was rather unfashionably short. Combing his hair down around his ears, he frowned at his reflection. Wearing his hair long would only make him look younger, and there were already those who believed him too young to be a Cardinal. He pushed his hair back again.

The Basilica was more crowded than usual. He of course made a point of going to Santa Maria Maggiore, putting in his appearances. Everyone had their favorite church in Rome, and men of the cloth were no exception. The difference was, Uccello had a much better chance of having a chapel named after him. He took mass and received the sprinkling of ashes, murmuring “Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris” by rote, when directed to by the archpriest. It wasn’t that he thirsted for vainglory, he thought, the smell of last year’s burnt Palm Sunday leaves hanging over him. As the dictum reminded him, to do so would be wickedness. What he was doing, his efforts with the commission, his choice to attend the services at this Basilica out of any church in all of Rome, was mere practicality. Like his mother, Uccello would do anything to survive.

After the services, he elected to visit the empty chapel where he would make his mark. The chapel was shaped like a Greek cross, and it was the far wall opposite the main door where Reni’s painting would sit, commanding the space. Should he ask Reni about the lunettes? Those would need decoration as well. Perhaps the ceilings. Grand frescoes overhead would complete the space. He rubbed his fingers across his lips over and over as he contemplated the blank wall, until a soft footfall sounded behind him. He was surprised to see Cardinal Bishop Sforza.

“Your Reverend Eminence,” Uccello greeted smartly, giving a customary bow, “I thought you would be at Mass with His Holiness.”

“I was,” Sforza replied serenely, “it was a rather shorter affair than usual. You know His Holiness is not well.”

Uccello nodded. He did know. There was likely to be a conclave, sooner rather than later, and he knew Sforza expected Uccello’s vote.

“You’ve been to see Reni, I imagine?” Sforza went on. He had such an odd habit of speaking without looking at the person he was addressing. Uccello mimicked him, standing beside the Cardinal Bishop and peering into an empty chapel. Out of the corner of his eye, Uccello noticed Sforza’s hands against his white lace surplice. They were age spotted, with thin skin and thick knuckles. Was Sforza too old to be a contender for Pope in the next conclave? Would other Cardinals turn their backs on Sforza purely by association with Uccello? He didn’t know. The Spanish and French Cardinals especially would have their favorites, their schemes, as would the Spanish and French kings. Uccello had turned this over in his mind since His Holiness had fallen ill. How would these factions influence the next vote, and how could Uccello be sure he had a place at the table when it came time?

“I have, four days ago. He’s been set to the task of preparing some sketches for my review.”

“Good,” Sforza replied. He didn’t ask for any more information, so Uccello didn’t offer it. “I’m glad you decided to take my advice. It should stem the flow of all of those nasty things people say about you.”

Uccello quashed any reactions he might have had to that. He only hoped that what was said about him was based in fact, instead of slanderous lies.

“What things would those be, your Eminence?” Uccello asked. He tried to make it sound as if he really had no idea, as if knowledge of the whisperings of his fellows meant nothing to him.

“Well, it’s just the question of your birth. That you were, reportedly, born out of wedlock. You know the Church has some fairly strong opinions about that sort of thing.”

Uccello did not have anything to say that Sforza didn’t already know. When he was young, and foolish, Uccello had hoped that the family for whom he’d gone to work would adopt him. When he was younger than that, but perhaps wiser, he could not bear to imagine being part of a family other than his mother and Mama Solana. Instead, he’d been introduced to the uncle of the master of the house, and that uncle was none other than Scipione Sforza. It had seemed like a sign from God, that he should come to that house over any other, that he should meet someone who saw potential in him. He’d thought, as a young man, that had he not come from such meager circumstances, he would not have understood the Gospel, the life of Christ. He had thought that made him an ideal candidate to minister to the people, to speak to the unloved and Godless. That had been a long time ago.

Now, he waited for Sforza to nod and take his leave, stalling in the halls of the Basilica until the old man was gone. He took another moment staring at the empty space where Reni’s work would dominate the chapel. Would that be enough to battle the worst of the rumors, prove his worth? Waiting seemed a test of his fortitude, but he would have his duties in the Curia to attend to over the next week and a half before calling upon Reni again.


	2. The Sacrifice of Isaac

Ten days dragged by, filled with the minutiae of the Vatican government. During that time, Uccello resisted the urge to send a courier around to Reni’s studio to ask as to his progress. He reminded himself his missive would likely go unanswered, and found himself wondering if all artists were like that, or if Reni was singularly unpleasant. He’d heard horror stories about the Capella Sistina, and how difficult that artist had been. Just a few years before Uccello’s birth, the pontiff had gone so far as to hire someone to paint over all the naked genitals and buttocks in The Last Judgement fresco. Uccello couldn’t afford such a fiasco.

What would Reni have come up with? Uccello still bristled as he remembered how dismissive Reni had been of Uccello’s first suggestion... but whatever sketches Reni had done, Uccello would have to keep in mind what Sforza had said. If he was honest, he’d scarcely been able to think of anything else. He rode to Reni’s studio, still turning over in his mind Sforza’s offhand revelation that the Cardinalate was not just ignoring him, but actively gossiping about him, so soon after he’d been made Cardinal Deacon. Who were the loudest among them, he wondered. Surely it was but a vocal minority attempting to defame him? Likely, nothing would be done so long as His Holiness still lived, but as the days wore on and the Pope’s health did not improve, Uccello worried his days were numbered.

Directing his horse through narrow streets, Uccello could see several possibilities. If the Cardinals who meant him harm held their tongues until after the conclave, might they attempt to influence the new Pope, whomever he may be, to strip Uccello of his cap? Indeed, if one who held ill will toward him became Pope, Uccello would be made a disgrace. He would have to flee Rome in much the same way as his mother had, no longer safe to show his face. If Sforza became Pope, Uccello would probably be safe. Unless, the others pushed Sforza, threatened his papacy with scandal— Uccello sped his horse toward his destination.

Tying up his horse, Uccello could see that there was light coming from an upper window. Thus, he assumed Reni was home. He began climbing the stairs, glad he’d seen the firelight from the street. On the ride over, he’d worried what he’d have done if the artist wasn’t in, despite Uccello having told him he’d be coming (both in person, and by messenger the previous afternoon). On the landing, the pile of mail seemed very much the same, but Uccello ignored it as he knocked insistently on Reni’s door.

Thankfully, the artist didn’t put him through the same rigamarole as Uccello’s last visit. He opened the door and then simply walked away, leaving Uccello to follow without a word.

Immediately, Uccello noticed that the still life with the skull and the flowers was gone. In the place of the charcoal drawing was a fairly large canvas on stretchers, with a mirror set up beside it. Reni seemed to be in the middle of painting a self-portrait. The painting of the body suggested a well-muscled physique, but the face, Uccello noticed, wore a tortured expression, as if warring with intense internal conflict. The figure was draped in a red wrap, and a fur, and sat in almost absolute darkness. Nothing in the painting’s background suggested where in the world the figure might be, but there was a faint light around the face, either a reflection of the strong directional light on the figure, or a representation of divine inspiration.

“Is this one of your sketches for the Basilica?” Uccello asked, brows drawing together. He certainly hoped not. He’d wanted something with more... more /things/ in view. No matter how beautifully Reni had painted his own torso— of course, Uccello had no way of knowing whether the painting was accurate... Reni had been without breeches when they’d first met, and Uccello supposed he could extrapolate from the man’s strong, well-proportioned calves that, indeed, perhaps the stomach and chest were equally athletic, but it, he, that is, it was useless to dwell on such things. He tore his eyes away from the picture, comparing the portrait against the reality of the man himself, but then noticed Reni observing him and turned his attention back to the canvas to avoid the man’s critical gaze. Just then, he saw the sling clutched in the figure’s hand, laden with round stones. So, Reni had painted himself as David preparing to battle Goliath? Did he see himself as a hero? Reni was hardly as young as David was meant to be at the time. Was this some kind of mad grab at a lost youth? Uccello wondered again at the face, the tense expression. Reni hadn’t censored the deep scar across his eye, or painted his face any younger than he was. It made Uccello uneasy for no reason he could name.

“No, that’s a personal project. I always put my personal projects there, so I can look at them from my bed. Your sketches are over there.”

Uccello followed the line of Reni’s gesture, his pigment-stained fingers and paint-smeared sleeve, to the far wall. There was some colored paper tacked up, with red and white chalk sketches spilled across each sheet. With his hands clasped behind his back, Uccello picked his way across the small apartment to the opposite wall, stepping over the rolled drop cloth and assorted detritus, discarded laundry and some tools Uccello assumed were used to stretch a canvas. He stepped around a broad set of pliers that the Spanish inquisitors might have envied as implements of torture, before he was close enough to scrutinize the sketches.

There were three of them, each one a riot of line and shade depicting a dramatic scene.

The first, clearly, was The Deposition of Christ, or rather, the Lamentation. Uccello studied it with confusion. The body of Christ lay limp, propped up by a desperate embrace from the Holy Virgin. Her brow was wrinkled with terrible grief, and her fingers dug fitfully into his skin. Slightly to her side stood Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea, Nicodemus with his lips pressed tight together and Joseph with his fist against his eye. At the body’s feet knelt Mary Magdalene, holding her veil over her mouth to muffle her sobs. Her other hand held one of the Christ’s feet, her thumb pushing against the sole and pulling open the wound there. There was an answering smear on the shroud beneath Jesus’s feet: sluggish, half-dried blood. But with all this focus on the feet of the dead Christ, Uccello couldn’t help but notice—

“Are the feet of the Lord in shadow, or are they /dirty/?”

Reni came to stand beside him, crossing his arms to consider his own drawings.

“He carried the cross through Jerusalem to Mount Calvary. Of course his feet are dirty.”

Uccello turned, incredulous. “He can’t have dirty feet, He is the Son of God!” he insisted.

“He sweated, else Saint Veronica would not have given her veil to wipe his brow.” He pushed his dark hair back from his forehead with a rake of his fingers, as if in unconscious mimic of the Lord’s suffering. “He bled, like mortal men,” he went on. “So, why wouldn’t his feet get dirty from walking in the dust and sand?” He was so flippant, it raised Uccello’s blood.

“And I suppose He walked on water ‘like mortal men’ as well?” Uccello spat. He wanted to cross his arms in front of himself but refused to give in to the gesture.

“You haven’t even looked at the other two sketches,” Reni dodged. His tone was acerbic and Uccello nearly sneered. He shot Reni a warning look and then stepped to the left to investigate the next picture.

An old man stooped over a youth bound by the wrists with twisted fabric. The boy’s face was pressed into a flat structure overlaid with hewn branches, the old man’s fingers digging into his doughy cheeks to keep him there, but between the gnarled digits, the boy’s eyes were wide with horror. In the old man’s other hand, a knife was raised, ready to strike the back of the boy’s neck. It was only after studying the drawing for a few moments that Uccello noticed the ram cresting the hill. So, it was The Binding of Isaac. But where was the angel who would stay Abraham’s hand? Where was the proof that Abraham had passed the test of the Almighty, and that his son would be spared in favor of slaughtering the ram, as was Jesus killed in favor of all mankind? Uccello bent closer to the paper, and pulled away again.

“There is no evidence of God in this picture,” he said.

“What the hell do you mean by that?” Reni sputtered. He was genuinely confused, but seemed to have gathered that it was an insult. Uccello gave him an unimpressed look.

“You’ve deliberately omitted the messenger of God, who stops Abraham from sacrificing Isaac as an offering unto the Lord,” Uccello explained, probably uselessly. “One wonders why you made that decision, what blasphemy you thought you could hide.” Turning to face Reni down, Uccello was struck by how that jagged scar across the artist’s face emphasized the man’s anger, outlining the furrow of his brows and the frown etched into his expression. “It suggests that you question the command of the Lord. Isaac never did. He submitted to his fate, was prepared to spill his blood on the mountain.”

Reni stepped in close to Uccello, close enough that Uccello could smell the salt sweat heat of his body. “You assume that,” Reni stated. “The scripture, you’ll find, is markedly unspecific on that point. In fact, Abraham lies to his son. Isaac sees the tools and materials for a burnt offering and asks where is the sacrificial lamb. Abraham does not say ‘there is no lamb, for it is you who will be slaughtered and burned upon the mount in Moria’. He doesn’t say, ‘Isaac, my only son since Ishmael was sent into the wilderness, the lamb is thee.’ He tells Isaac that the Lord himself will provide the lamb for the slaughter.”

“And so he did, did he not? Isaac had nothing to fear. He was devoted to his father, and to the Lord,” Uccello defended. He’d expected Reni to be upset about the slights against his picture. It seemed instead he was upset about some injustice committed against Isaac in the book of Genesis.

“Had Abraham told Isaac about the Lord’s command, I think we would know of it. Isaac would make some comment, would he not, if he knew he was building the pyre for his own destruction. Were your father to slice your throat on a sacrificial font, would you not hope he’d tell you? Would you not want to know why?”

Uccello straightened, steeled his jaw. “‘Honor thy father, and thy mother,’ the Lord instructs us,” he replied carefully.

“You must wonder what the trip down the mountain was like for Isaac and Abraham. Do you think Isaac could ever trust his father again, knowing what Abraham was willing to do at the behest of God? Do you think he asked him, ‘why father, why did you raise a knife to slay me’? Would you have asked it of your father?” Reni watched him, then inclined his head, as if something had been revealed to him. “You don’t have an answer for that. I can see it in your face. You never knew your father.”

Uccello squared his shoulders, felt his fingernails digging into his palms.

“I’m almost jealous,” Reni went on, taking some of the wind out of Uccello’s bellows. “I sometimes wish I’d never met my father.”

Uccello snorted in derision. “So then, this subject,” he gestured at the drawing of Isaac and Abraham. “Is of a rather personal nature for you, is that it? Did your father mistreat you? You’re projecting yourself on poor little Isaac? What ever happened to David, praying before he slays Goliath?” He flung a hand out to indicate the canvas across the room.

It was Reni’s turn to stiffen and snarl. “I suppose it will be the last sketch for you, then,” he grit out, crossing to stand before it, hitting Uccello’s shoulder with his own as he did so. Uccello refused to take the bait, and moved into Reni’s personal space to judge the last of the three sketches.

The edge of the paper butted tight up against the corner of the wall, and the two men stood before it, crammed into a small space perhaps the length of a writing desk, between the wall and the artist’s bed, but as soon as Uccello got a good look at the drawing, he recoiled, tripping over a storage trunk and sprawling across the unmade bed with an undignified yelp.

He tried to right himself, but Reni was upon him in moments, looming over him, furious. Uccello glared up at him, swiping fingers across the thin coverlet to find his biretta before it was crushed. He tugged it back onto his head over the round zuchetto, leveling a challenging look at Reni, standing in his way.

“Are you a Cardinal or a carnival performer?” Reni spat. “You’re overreacting purely to insult me!”

“For your information, I tripped. If you didn’t keep your home in such disarray, perhaps it wouldn’t have happened.” He smoothed his cassock angrily.

“You reacted as if burned, you utter clown. Are you going to faint, next?”

“Well, that’s something to consider. You want women and children to see that, in a house of God? It’s completely inappropriate!” He glanced over at the sketch again, feeling his features twist with distaste.

Illuminated by a light through the flap of a tent, a man with his teeth bared and his eyes white with fury thrust a javelin through the bodies of a pair of lovers. It looked as though they had been speared through their genitals, pinned together to bleed out in this hideous way. Uccello couldn’t imagine what had possessed Reni to choose such an awful subject.

“It’s biblical,” Reni sneered. “Numeri 25:8. And it’s dramatic, as you requested. In fact I think this would be perfect for you. The man with the javelin, if you don’t recognize him, is Phinehas... the /priest/.”

“I beg your pardon?!”

“The Almighty rewarded Phinehas for his zealotry, in preventing the Israelites from committing whoredom and conceiving children through it.”

“It, that—“ Uccello blustered, “that was about /idol worship!/“

“Mm, no, I don’t think so,” Reni retorted cruelly, “Chapter 25 begins with whoredom. Had it really been about idol worship then the triumphal moment would show Phinehas tearing down a statue of Baalpeor, not spearing an Israelite and his Midian tart.”

“How do you know she was a tart?!” Uccello cried, wondering at himself the moment he said it, but Reni merely crossed to the picture in two long strides, leaving Uccello sat there alone upon the artist’s unclean linens.

Reni gestured broadly at the sketch of Phinehas in Moab and then the other two drawings in turn, his face furious, his posture ready to strike.

“Pick one,” he demanded, his hand smacking audibly back at his side. His whole body tensed and he leaned toward Uccello as if readying for a brawl.

“Absolutely not!” Uccello returned. He straightened as gracefully as he could after having fallen directly on his ass into a stranger’s bed.

“You’ve paid for these,” Reni grit out. “/Pick one,/“ he repeated.

“I paid for the services of a competent artist,” Uccello hissed, his voice growing tight, “one who had some basic grasp of what’s appropriate for a commission of this magnitude!” His jaw ached with the effort of withholding a snarl, but he gripped Reni’s bedcover and mattress to haul himself to his feet. “Are you trying to get back at the Church, because, because of your uncle?! I won’t allow it! I’ll have you run out of the city before you disrespect me again, and I’ll—!”

Reni lunged for him. He pounced like an animal, his thick bicep catching Uccello in the chest and bowling him over a second time, knocking the wind out of him. Uccello flailed, his mozzetta flying up around him like the wings of a distressed bird. His biretta and zuccheto spilled off of his head, and his hair slipped from its neat coif to lay ticklish over his eyes. He blinked it free, hands up to defend himself, ready to throw an unsportsmanlike punch to Reni’s kidneys, but there came, instead of the artist’s callused fingers around his throat, a scrape of metal and then Reni bounded up from the bed.

“You /bastard/!” Reni spat. In his hand was a sword. Uccello scrambled back, feeling his zuccheto crumple under his fingers.

“Why the hell do you have that?!” Uccello cried, at the same moment Reni roared, “You won’t take these? Fine!” and slashed them, all three in a vicious stroke. The paper curled slightly around the wound but Reni wasn’t done— he slashed again, deeper this time and digging into the wall, the point of his sword scraping the plaster, causing flakes to rain down on the floor. Stupidly, Uccello noticed the white powder drifting down to settle over a layer of black and red chalk dust accumulated where the floor met the wall, and was reminded, ‘/Our Lady of the Snows/‘. He grabbed for his zuccheto and biretta, clutching them to his chest as he struggled out of the bed. His feet tangled momentarily in his cassock, and he stumbled, but Reni paid him no mind. He’d opened deep gouges in the surface of the wall, and the drawings lay in tatters around his feet. Only a few tenacious scraps clung to the wall, the tacks holding against Reni’s savagery. The curl of canvas tent flap on the left, Abraham’s upraised arm and flashing dagger in the next, Jesus Christ’s limp hand at the bottom of the last. Reni stood panting in the wreckage.

Before he could turn and set his blade on Uccello, the Cardinal turned tail and fled, leaving the door open on its hinges in his haste.

—————-

What was an artist doing with a sword?! Uccello didn’t stop to ask, he hurried down the stairs and out to the road to untie his horse and escape.

What kind of person was Camilo Reni, that he kept an illegal sword by his bed? What reason did he have to think he’d need to protect himself from assailants in the night? What sort of trouble was he in to suggest that? Uccello spurred his horse on, a bit faster than he usually would. He startled a merchant with a cart as he cut around him, but ignored the man’s shouts and gesticulations until he was far enough away from Reni’s apartment that he didn’t fear for being run through by a madman. He slowed his horse, and hoped the merchant hadn’t paid too much attention to the color of Uccello’s robes. Such comportment was unfitting of a man of his status.

He rode through the busy streets of the abitato with no real direction for a time, thinking on what he was to do about Reni and this commission. Reni already had a hundred and fifty scudi from Uccello’s pocket. Uccello couldn’t afford to simply wash his hands of the man and find another artist. He didn’t have time to challenge the man in court, embarking on a lengthy legal battle over whether or not Reni had fulfilled his side of the bargain. So, he’d have to either work with a man who had pulled a /sword/ to destroy all of his sketches, or, find some way to get his money back.

Before he knew it, he sat astride his horse before the Fountain of Moses, opposite the Palazzo del Quirinale. He looked toward the villa. Likely, His Holiness lay within, his health failing. Perhaps the grand fountain the Pontiff had commissioned seven years prior for the grounds of the palace, with its impressive water organ, gave him some solace as his strength left him. Uccello grimaced. Had he selected any one of Reni’s designs, Uccello would know no such peace from his own commission.

The architect who’d built the water organ in the papal piazza was one of the several who’d worked on the Fountain of Moses, before which, Uccello stood. The fountain itself, mimicking the style of an ancient walled arch, was just one terminal end of a papal construction project to refurbish the crumbling aqueducts. The towering statue of Moses, pointing commandingly down at the flow of clean drinking water, was a symbol, that Catholicism would triumph over the Protestant Reformation, that it was the one true church as it did what the Protestants had not: serve the people by bringing them life-giving water. The popes, it seemed, had a good relationship with the artist. He must not have been a complete lunatic, then; not impossible to work with as Reni was.

He wasn’t far from Sforza’s palazzo. Less than a quarter hour’s ride separated him from marching up to the Cardinal bishop to ask what he meant by suggesting this raving madman for something so important. All he would have to do was to guide his horse to the northwest.

He turned southwest instead, towards the far humbler bowl-shaped fountain at Tre Vie, and then on to the crowded Campus Martius.

New construction projects seemed to sprout up daily, swallowing up ancient ruins brick by brick, as Sforza’s palazzo had done to the baths of Emperor Constantine. Uccello pointed his horse to the stables where he paid a groom to keep and water it, bounded on one side by a crumbling wall from centuries past. It formed something of an idyllic scene, Uccello thought, the pastoral stables with the Tiber in the distance, the ancient wall rising up to give the horses shade. He could imagine it as a decorative painting in some parlor of the noble home in which he’d first found work when he came to Rome as a boy.

He’d been lucky to have been granted that job, and by the time he was fifteen, he made a monthly salary of 20 baiocci. Five years later, he was making two scudi a month— ten times as much. Now, here was Camilo Reni, demanding 300 scudi for his /great work/, and he’d already ruined 150 scudi’s worth. It would have taken Uccello more than six years to come up with that amount before he’d joined the clergy, and that was before taxes. Who did Reni think he was?

Leaving his horse with the groom, Uccello set off on foot past the tennis courts toward the apartment he rented. It was not a sprawling palace like the Medici’s Palazzo Madama, or Giustiniani’s complex encompassing a city block, though he knew Cardinals who lived in each. His was a simple two-story unit near the Via della Scrofa, with a view of Palazzo Altemps— another Cardinal’s former home.

Constantly surrounded by all of this decadence, Uccello had to remember what Reni had said upon their first meeting: that most wealthy men would decorate their homes before ordering a public commission. But what had he to decorate? His walls were bare, but he had no care for them, except in that they represented the differences between himself and his fellow Cardinals. He had no noble title. His father had fought alongside someone in the house of Sforza in the Battle of Scannagallo, and that was how he made his way in society: through hard work in a noble house, enough to get him noticed by the Cardinal Bishop. Reni had made much ado over the fact that Uccello had never met his father, but what difference would it have made if he had? There was no changing the truth of his birth. The man could be dead in combat, or of the plague, or of the very famine that took Uccello’s mother, and Uccello, spared by the convenience of his name, would likely never know.

It was growing late. Uccello watched the bustle of the street below begin to die down, though the piazza was never truly empty. There were always people on their way to and from the fountain at the Pantheon, for their drinking water, or else to the Piazza Navona for ball games and clandestine meetings. Fights broke out there often, though Uccello had thus far avoided being witness to any of them. He had to assume Reni had been involved in his fair share of street brawls, by the scar on his face, and the fact he kept a sword at his bedside.

There were plenty of other artists in Rome. Uccello knew that they’d flocked into the city during the long famine years, hoping that the bread shortages in Rome were less dire than in the rest of the country. They hoped in vain, of course, and Uccello himself had survived on meat and greens for nearly a decade, but now he had money to spend and there were goods to spend it on. Reni certainly looked well-fed, with his broad shoulders and muscular thighs. The famine and plague years mustn’t have affected him as they had Uccello, who blamed his slighter frame on being fed salad for two out of three meals from the age of ten until he was eighteen. Where on earth had Reni come from, anyway? Was he a native Roman, or had he come in the sea of hopefuls who flogged their wares in the marketplaces? Uccello could have gone to any one of those other artists, and they wouldn’t have wanted 300 scudi for it, either. Why, Sforza had in his dining room a funny painting of a girl spilling her basket of fruit, for which the Cardinal Bishop admitted to have paid only eight. Uccello knew he couldn’t have a fruit painting for the wall of a Basilica (there were rules about this sort of thing), but he couldn’t imagine going back to Reni’s apartment to play nice with him after watching the violence with which he’d slashed his own drawings— with enough force and power to scar the walls. Had Uccello been at the other end of that sword, Reni would have eviscerated him. He’d be lying dead on the artist’s floor, and who would there be to mourn him? Who would even know he was gone? 

Surely there were those among the Cardinalate who would toast their glasses if Uccello turned up dead in a gutter, dumped out of Reni’s window to lie among the butcher’s shop waste in an unpaved alleyway. Why had Sforza recommended him? Reni was skilled, even exceptional, but he wasn’t worth the trouble. It seemed Uccello would have to find another way, and fast. 


	3. Narcissus

Sunday was filled up with Mass and other duties within the Church, but Monday, Uccello was able to go out into the city, to /minister to the poor/, and see what there was to be done about his artist problem. He didn’t have far to travel. 

Not three weeks into his reign, His Holiness had ordered all the prostitutes of Rome into the slums of the Ortaccio, so they and their clients could be better policed. Previous pontiffs had tried the very same thing, and Uccello theorised that may have been what drove his mother to the western coast, though he’d never asked Mama Solana if it was so. For forty years, since the reign of Pope Pius V, the working girls had found ways around the walls of the district, always spilling back out into the rest of the city like ink spreading on silk. If they were caught, they could be whipped, have their belongings seized, and even face banishment, but the draw of clients unwilling to walk into the Ortaccio ghetto, the need to stay out past the evening /Ave Maria/, created an industry focused upon skirting the laws to make sure a person seeking company outside those proscribed boundaries had no trouble finding it. It was with a contact of his within that industry that Uccello now sought to meet. 

Caupa Pietra di Mercurio ran a respectable business, enough so that she was called ‘caupa’, as she alone held title over the establishment. There was no male ‘caupo’ who was the true owner; the tavern was hers, and no one would challenge that. It was well-kept, run with an almost military precision, and sat within shouting distance of the Convent of San Girolamo. Caupa Pietra was on good terms with the nuns, often contributing a roast or a cask of wine for feast days. She had never been married, and the nuns often joked that she ought to join their order, for all that they had in common. But, she was committed to her work, and her inn was always scrupulously clean. Any fights that may threaten to break out in the dining room were quashed immediately by the innkeeper herself, her imposing figure and tremendous strength enough to throw any brawler out on the street, banned from ever returning. The Taberna di Mercurio welcomed all others with a painted sign over the door, the silver winged helmet of the pagan god as its icon. It also sat directly on top of some ancient aqueduct tunnels, cut off, likely, from the Aqua Vergine during some renovation in centuries past. One end of the tunnel ran under the Ortaccio, and the other end stopped short beneath the Campus Martius, accessible through a secret entrance to which Caupa Pietra had the only key.

Uccello had never, even before he joined the clergy and took his vows, made use of the small individual rooms Caupa Pietra had installed in the old terracotta tunnel. But, just as he’d been given work in the Sforza house by giving his father’s name, he’d been welcomed by the undesirables of Rome, by giving his mother’s. Thus, he’d made Caupa Pietra’s acquaintance, and they’d been friends for some fifteen years. 

As he entered, Caupa Pietra looked up from where she was wiping down an already spotless bar. She nodded, not in the habit of smiling even to her bosom friends, and threw her cloth into a basin with an artful flick. She wiped her hands on her apron and came around the bar, gesturing to a far table and allowing her staff to pick up cleaning where she left off.

Uccello made his way over to the table, and sat opposite her. Immediately, two glasses of wine appeared at their elbows, without a word from the Caupa or the waiter. She lifted hers with one hand, and tucked a lock of brilliantly blonde hair back under her strikingly white hair scarf with the other. Uccello raised the other glass slightly, and toasted to her health.

“So, what brings you here, your eminence?” Her eyes sparked with something wicked at the title. Uccello ignored it and took a sip of his wine.

“I suppose I can’t tell you it’s a purely social call,” he replied.

“I think lying might be a sin, Cardinal.” There was a smile in her voice that didn’t quite reach her face. “Out with it, you look like there’s a bee in your fancy red hat.”

Taking another fortifying drink, Uccello tried to find a way to summarize his predicament. Ultimately he settled on, “It’s this painter.”

“Mm, home renovation troubles? Can’t help you there.” The wine was beginning to stain her lips, drawing attention to their sardonic tilt.

“No, worse. I made a commission for a new chapel at the Basilica Santa Maria Maggiore. I was recommended an artist for the job by a very good judge of this sort of thing. Now I’m finding he’s totally impossible to work with. Unfortunately he already has a fair chunk of my money, so I can’t simply throw him out on his ear. In short, I need some way to get my money back quickly, so I can commission another artist in time for the feast day in August.” He folded his hands on the table, watching Caupa Pietra drink in silence.

“Impossible how?” she asked, when her glass was half drained.

“He pulled a sword on me,” Uccello answered, struggling to keep his face neutral.

Caupa Pietra’s eyebrows shot up. “He threatened a member of the Curia with a /sword/?”

“Well, not exactly. He slashed up all of the sketches he’d done for me, just—“ he mimed a tearing sound along with a cutting motion with his wrist, “frrrrit!—through all three of them. Cut them to ribbons. Gouged the wall. What kind of person does that?” He gulped his wine, washing the sour taste of describing Reni’s actions down. Finally he set his glass down and heaved a heavy sigh. “So that’s two weeks gone and I’m no closer to having my piece for the Basilica.” Uccello fiddled with his glass, sloshing the last quarter portion of wine back and forth, trying not to let on how terrified he’d been when Reni knocked him over and drew a blade.

“Oh, well,” Pietra intoned, “That’s tricky. I think it’s only illegal to carry a sword in public. I’m not sure where the law falls on keeping one in a private home or studio or whatever.”

“I know. And it seems Cardinal Bishop Sforza’s a fan of his work, so it wouldn’t do to send the police after him, anyway.”

“Aha, so you’re not exactly looking for above-board means to get your money back. I think I see where this is going. Who is he?” She’d paused with her cup en route to her lips, looking over the rim at him.

“Camilo Reni.”

“Oh, /him/.” She leaned back in her chair, crossing her impressive arms over her chest. “What an annoying man.”

“So I see you’ve met,” Uccello groused. ‘Annoying’ wasn’t necessarily the word he’d have chosen, but it got the point across.

“He hires girls, but only as models. Fine, except that he expects to pay as much for four hours of a girl sitting and posing as a man would for a half-hour’s tumble. And they always come back mad as wet cats for how he orders them about and gets frustrated with them for moving to scratch their noses or shoo a fly. Plus all that /time/. They could be seeing other clients in all those hours he keeps them, making better money.”

Uccello listened to the list of complaints, swirling the last of his drink in agitation. “Well. Do you have anything on him?”

Pietra clicked her tongue quietly. “Nothing for leverage. Just the grievances of whores tired of posing as blessed virgins. Lord knows they wouldn’t mind him so much if he’d just hire them for ordinary work. He’s not bad to look at, after all.”

Uccello hid his grimace in his cup.

“Even with that scar,” she went on, tracing the line of Reni’s scar on her own face. “Personally I think it somehow makes sense of his face, but you should have seen him right after it happened, stomping around, daring anyone to so much as look at him askance. I thought I was going to have to throw him out.”

Uccello was about to drain the last of his wine, but stopped, leaning toward Pietra with his glass still held aloft.

“Do you know how it happened, then?” he asked, hoping there was something there he could use.

“I don’t,” she said, merriment in her eyes at Uccello’s scowl, “But you could ask him yourself. Sounds to me like you’re stuck with him, since you’ve got nothing to use against him.”

With a huff, Uccello threw back the last of his wine. Caupa Pietra wouldn’t let him pay for his drink, and sent him on his way no better off than when he came in. At least Pietra seemed to get some entertainment out of his suffering.

—————

The walk back home took Uccello through the marketplaces, and, feeling sorry and restless, he purchased a bottle of wine. But when he arrived at his apartment door, thinking of nothing but his decanter and glass, there was a young man standing on the landing. Uccello didn’t think he’d ever seen him before. The young man held up a folded scrap of paper, sealed with unstamped wax. He wasn’t Sforza’s usual messenger boy, but Uccello accepted the message and deftly broke the seal. Unfolding it there on the landing, he knew immediately who it was from. He unlatched his door and bade the messenger come in.

The paper, perhaps as long as his forearm, held a drawing, head and shoulders, in black and white chalk. It was a portrait of Uccello himself, and rather unnecessarily, it was signed in the bottom right corner. Uccello would have known it was done by Reni’s hand regardless. The messenger must have taken special care not to rumple it as he ran across the city from Reni’s apartment to the Campus Martius. Uccello offered the young man a place to sit, as he intended to pen a response and send it right back to Reni by the same messenger.

To the side of the sitting room where he left the young man, Uccello’s apartment had a spare room. He’d always meant to make it into a study, but in truth it had remained mostly unfurnished aside from the chest of drawers where he kept his letters. He did most of his writing at his kitchen table, never having gotten around to having a desk brought in, and hoped the messenger wouldn’t comment on it to Reni.

He smoothed the drawing. It really was a very good likeness. He could hardly believe Reni had done it from memory, without studying Uccello’s face for a portrait. There was Uccello’s own slightly furrowed brow, the downturned shape of his lips, his eyes rendered clear and bright, almost like water, almost like glass. His biretta perched commandingly on his head, his mozetta looking soft and textural. The angle of his jaw was perhaps a bit stronger than it was in life, but he couldn’t fault that. It really was, after all, a very good likeness.

Uccello supposed that this was some kind of apology, or else an entreaty to continue work for the sake of the remaining hundred and fifty scudi. Reni hadn’t included a note either way, but, plucking up a fresh leaf of vellum and his inkwell and quill pen, Uccello began to decide how he could maintain the upper hand. He left the drawing on top of the chest of drawers, not willing to crush it into a drawer just yet. In the kitchen, he lit a candle, and noticed the young man watching him from the next room.

“Here,” he said, uncorking the wine and pouring a glass for the messenger to keep him company while Uccello wrote. “Let that breathe a moment.” It would be better decanted, but he assumed a messenger boy wouldn’t be an expert. In any case, Uccello knew he was a rather slow writer. It would be better if the young man had something to keep him occupied, so he didn’t start wondering why a Cardinal was so deliberate with his letters, and guess correctly that Uccello had no formal schooling.

“Why, that’s very kind, sir,” the messenger replied. He had a sort of shy manner about him, but took the wine anyway.

“Think nothing of it...hm.” He trailed off, realizing he hadn’t asked for the messenger’s name, and simply calling him ‘boy’ seemed inappropriate on several levels— not the least of which was that the young man was at least twenty.

“Montreux. That is, Delphine Montreux.”

Uccello raised his brows without meaning to.

“I know,” the young man went on, “it’s a girl’s name. I have six older sisters. I don’t think my mother knew any boy’s names when I came along.”

“Well, Mr. Montreux, I hope you don’t mind waiting a bit longer while I draft a reply.”

“No sir,” Montreux answered, before busying himself with his wine.

Uccello made his way back to the kitchen, and sat with his candle and quill. He was especially careful with his writing, not wanting to give Reni the wrong impression. After a time, Montreux spoke again.

“The man who sent me, he’s an artist, right?”

Looking up, Uccello could see that Montreux was very steadily draining his glass.

“He is,” Uccello answered. “A painter.”

Montreux looked around him at the cold hearth, the empty mantel, the patterned floor with a single rug under the armchairs, the heavy carved table, the wainscoting running around the room at about waist-height, separating the walls into two colors: emerald green at the bottom, and bare beige up to the ceiling.

“This is a very nice room, sir. I’m sure it’ll be properly cozy in here with some paintings. If I had a nice home like this, that’s what I would do: cover every wall with a big painting like you could walk right into it.”

Uccello couldn’t help but smile.

“The cost of such large works might rival the cost of the house itself,” he replied mildly. He saw that Montreux was nearly done with his wine and gestured to the bottle, allowing the messenger to help himself. When Montreux stood up, he was a little unsteady, and Uccello guessed that the man didn’t have much opportunity to sample a good vintage. Perhaps he only got watered-down communion wine. Well, this would be a treat for him, a reward for his patience.

“I know, sir,” Montreux said, pouring himself another glass. “But I’m dreaming, anyway. Nothing sensible about it. That’s all there is to be done when one has as many siblings as I do. All of us living at home. At least I’ve got this job to get me out in the city, or my sisters, God bless them, might drive me to the end of my wits. This one having trouble with her sweetheart, that one having trouble with work. The oldest may yet become a nun, which makes sense, to look at her. The Lord will forgive me for saying so. Then I’ll only have to share with my five sisters, and won’t that be fine. While I’m at it, I’d want a horse.” He sipped deeply, and turned from the bottle to Uccello. “Do you have a horse, sir?”

“I do.” This was distracting him from his letter, but he found he didn’t mind it.

“Where do you keep him?” His eyes were getting a bit hazy, and Uccello hoped the poor thing wouldn’t be too inebriated to complete his delivery after just two cups.

Uccello wiped his quill before it could drip and ruin his reply to Reni. “I pay a groom at a stable near the cattle market.”

“What’s’is name?”

“The groom? Giuseppe.”

“No, the horse.”

“Oh. ‘Finale’. And actually it’s a mare. A black Spanish jennet.”

“That a type of horse?” Montreux made his way back to the chair, and settled, carefully cradling his wine. “This is a very comfortable chair. We don’t have any chairs with arms at home. We barely have enough beds.”

“Yes, it’s a war horse. They say it has a smoother gait than other horses.” Uccello gave a wry grin. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t have any good chairs where I grew up, either. Mostly we had three-legged stools or pillows on the floor.”

“You’re a man of the people, sir,” Montreux said, lifting his glass.

“Well, don’t go spreading it around,” Uccello replied, prompting Montreux to laugh and then stifle a hiccough. Uccello smirked in response and bent to his letter again.

After what Reni had pulled, Uccello wouldn’t soon meet him in his studio. Perhaps meeting somewhere in public, somewhere with /witnesses/, would be advised. The Basilica, or indeed anyplace he was likely to run into other Cardinals, was out— if they knew which artist he’d hired, one of them might try to hire Reni out from under him, use their deeper pockets to delay completion of his commission. Sforza he could trust, but he’d been thinking about who among the Cardinalate was gossiping about him, and it seemed like the sort of thing Peretti or Opizzi might do, just to make Uccello’s life difficult. He licked his quill, laid down a few more words. If Reni meant to apologize by sending that drawing, he wasn’t all the way there. All the same, Uccello had to remember what Caupa Pietra had said: he was stuck with Reni, unless he wanted to be out three weeks and a hundred and fifty scudi. The only thing left to do was to work /with/ Reni. There had to be some way to keep him on a tighter leash.

For one thing, he’d have to be more involved in the planning process. He’d managed to dodge the usual requirement of episcopal approval for an image meant for a chapel fresco, only because he happened to know some sensitive information the resident bishop didn’t want getting out. But, if he wanted to keep that leverage (and avoid scandal), the painting would have to be good enough (and the image, for Heaven’s sake, less obscene than Reni’s proposals) so the bishop wouldn’t be questioned about it. Unfortunately, that would necessitate more time spent with Reni.

Furthermore he didn’t want to waste any more time. He named a time and a place, and signed the letter off, folded and sealed it, stamped the wax. He walked back into the sitting room where Montreux was a little pink in the face. His dark hair was straight and lank, falling into his eyes, and he swept it back at Uccello’s approach, standing too quickly from his chair and wobbling immediately. He took a deep breath to steady himself. Uccello took his glass.

“Why don’t you go to the basin in the kitchen,” Uccello offered, “splash some water on your face?”

“Yessir,” Montreux slurred, stumbling past Uccello into the kitchen while Uccello waited for the wax to cool. Uccello corked the bottle, listening to the unmistakable sound of a man attempting to sober up, before Montreux reappeared from the kitchen, his face scrubbed even pinker than he’d been with drink by toweling off with a dish rag.

“Better?” Uccello asked.

“Yes sir, thank you sir,” Montreux said with conviction. His eyes were a bit bleary still.

“Will you be alright to get across the city?”

“Absolush-ly, sir. I’m a profish, I’m a perfenchion, I’m— I do this for a living.” He saluted well enough that Uccello didn’t think Montreux was about to cross in front of a cart horse, at least. “I’ll walk it off,” the messenger insisted. “Thank you for your generoshity. It was good wine.” He nodded once and with finality, and accepted Uccello’s letter and payment. Then, he stepped out the door and was gone.

Once again, all Uccello could do was wait. He didn’t expect Reni to reply to him; he would merely have to go to the location he’d named in the letter on the specified date and at the specified time, and trust Reni to appear. He didn’t /want/ to trust the man, exactly, not after his outburst, but... Uccello drifted back into his spare room, and stared down at his own likeness lying atop the chest of drawers. Reni had made this, not for his commission, not by his order, but as a trinket for Uccello to keep. Nobody had ever done his portrait.

Picking up the paper again, Uccello resisted the urge to follow the charcoal lines with his own fingertips, wondering at how Reni had captured his face so well. Reni hadn’t censored Uccello’s scowl, hadn’t made him more handsome or congenial, and for some reason, Uccello respected that. He smiled to himself, and placed the drawing on the polished wood again. He didn’t yet want to put it away.

—————-

He’d given Reni another week, which he’d thought was more than generous. At the appointed time, he was waiting with a glass of chilled wine, chips of ice tinkling in their reservoir as they melted and shifted. The weather was still unseasonably warm, and he’d heard grumblings in the Curia about the law forcing them all to wear their scarlet robes and mozzettas whenever they weren’t at home. Uccello tried not to think about it, and Pietra tried to keep her tavern cool. She stood near Uccello’s table, fists braced on her hips as she tried to decide if opening the windows was doing more harm than good.

“You’d better drink that before all the ice melts,” she groused. “I only have so much left in my cellar, and it won’t last if this heat doesn’t break soon.”

Uccello sipped sparingly. Pietra, a Florentine, was of the opinion that wine was best chilled. Uccello didn’t have any strong feelings one way or the other, but the wine was really only there to keep him company until Reni arrived.

“I don’t want to be deep in my cups by the time he gets here,” he explained, toying with his drink. Pietra must have brought these glasses over from Florence. They had an ingenious two-shelled design. The outer would hold thin chips of ice, the inner, the beverage. They were rather pretty, actually, and the afternoon sunlight cast interesting patterns of color on the tabletop through the ice, glass, and wine. Uccello looked at the shifting rays of gold, white, and deep red on the wood, and pretended not to see Pietra’s considering look.

“That’s your fault for getting here so early,” she said, but she kept her keen eyes on him, as if looking for a gap in his armor. “One might almost think you’re nervous.”

“Tease all you want, but let’s see you laugh when he’s got a sword inches from your face.”

“Ha, he’d never have time to unsheathe it. I’d lay him out flat before he could say ‘salve tibi’.”

“Of that I’ve no doubt,” Uccello admitted. “That’s part of the reason I arranged to meet him here. Additionally, if he makes trouble and you do throw him out, he’ll find he’s suddenly got a shortage of models to contend with.” His eyes cut surreptitiously to the kitchen, where they both knew the door to Pietra’s secret underground lodgings stood.

“You conniving snake, is that all?” Pietra answered, clearly amused.

“No, actually,” Uccello drawled, pretending at nonchalance. “It’s also across town for him, and he’ll be carrying materials. He’ll have to sweat a little if he wants to keep this commission.” Uccello quirked his eyebrow at Pietra, and the corner of her mouth twitched up.

“No law against pettiness,” she agreed. Apparently deciding what little breeze they could get through the windows was worth having them open, Pietra disappeared into the kitchen. Moments later, Reni walked in.

It looked as if he’d made something of an effort with his appearance. Granted, Uccello had never seen him wearing shoes before then, but his boots were well kept, his breeches not terribly worn, and while the white linen collar above his black overshirt was a bit rumpled from the trek over, it appeared to be clean. He’d even combed his hair, though it was mussed a bit by the hat Reni whipped off to fan himself with upon entering. When he came closer, spotting Uccello’s carmine robes immediately, Uccello could see that Reni was maybe starting to grow a mustache, and a bit of scruff at his chin. It didn’t look like it would ever be the pointed beard that was so ubiquitously in fashion, but Uccello wouldn’t comment. He hated the way he, personally, looked with facial hair. It drew too much attention to the uncommon color of his hair, he thought.

Reni considered the chair opposite Uccello for a moment, before Uccello nodded at him, and he felt obliged to take a seat. He hung his hat on the back of the chair, and its single black feather drooped toward the floor, weighed down by the silver clasp shaped like a Venetian mask that held it to the band. Reni was glistening with sweat, and without a word, Uccello pushed his mostly untouched wine towards him.

The artist laid a leather case on the table, lifted the glass, and did not drink but pressed its damp surface to his neck and his face. He closed his eyes and exhaled a deep sigh in apparent relief. A pearl of condensation rolled off the glass, down Reni’s throat, and soaked into his limp white collar. Uccello swallowed, and regretted giving up his drink.

Finally, Reni brought the glass to his lips, took a few long swallows, and set the vessel down again. Only then did he truly address Uccello.

“It shouldn’t be this hot, this time of year,” he said, as everyone had been doing. “It’s making my paints behave strangely. The binding medium wants to run like fat in a pan.” He unlaced the flap on his satchel, unfolded it like a book. Inside were a collection of papers, some folded, others irregular shapes. Reni wiped the ring the glass had left from the table with his sleeve, oblivious to Uccello’s grimace, and set the papers down one by one, flattening the folded ones, arranging the scraps. These drawings were smaller and less realized than the first set Uccello had seen, but as Reni placed them, he began to see the man’s intention. The folded sheets were sketches for a full composition, while the oddly shaped pieces contained detail studies: heads, hands, important moments from each image, rendered at a visible size. Uccello surveyed them in silence.

“I may have acted rashly, the last time we met,” Reni said, unable to keep the emphasis off of that word, /rashly/, like he was forcing himself into even such a gross understatement as that. Uccello raised his brows, unimpressed. He hadn’t said anything to Reni since the man walked in, and was willing to wait for some form of explanation or apology. “It seems I may have misunderstood your... vision. For the piece,” Reni went on, “so I’ve made these sketches which might be more to your. Tastes.”

Was this what contrition looked like from a man like Camilo Reni?

“That remaining hundred and fifty scudi must be important to you,” Uccello said archly. “Do you know, no one has ever done my portrait before? I was surprised you were able to do it from memory. One wonders why you even need models.” His eyes flickered toward the kitchen.

Reni looked away. “I didn’t get the eyes right,” he stated. Uccello tilted his head, calling the portrait to memory.

“You think so? I thought it captured me very well.”

“Actually I thought you might be insulted.” Reni still hadn’t looked up again.

“Was it meant to be an insult?” Uccello sat back in his seat, regarding Reni coolly.

“No,” Reni said forcefully, “it was just.” He drew a pattern in the condensation on the wine glass. “A thought I had. That because I didn’t draw you smiling beatifically and benevolently you might. Think it unkind.”

His halting manner of speech was a little difficult to read. Uccello waved to a waitress for another cup of wine.

“I don’t know that I’ve ever smiled in your presence,” he said.

At that, Reni finally looked up.

“No, I think not.”

They met each other’s eyes, and Reni seemed to take him in, calculate and schematize. Perhaps he was trying to find the error in his drawing, what it was about the eyes he thought he’d gotten wrong. Uccello allowed himself to be observed, felt Reni’s gaze working him over, before turning his attention again to the sketches.

“This is... Diana and Actaeon?” Uccello had thought he’d been fairly clear that the subject should be Biblical, not mythological, but here was a woman, knee-deep in a pool, lifting a loose chemise which preserved her modesty. Behind her, a man peered, hidden by heavy curtains. Uccello was familiar with the story only through a painting which hung in a sitting room in Sforza’s nephew’s home, where Uccello had worked until he joined the clergy. He presumed that the woman’s long white shirt was a symbol of Diana’s sworn virginity. In the painting Uccello knew, Diana was attended by nymphs, but perhaps Reni had taken Uccello’s critiques to heart, and refrained from depicting too much bare flesh. The Cardinal Bishop had once told Uccello that the true meaning of the fable was that it is a virtue to know when to avert one’s eyes, when to leave something alone. Or else, like Actaeon, who gazed upon the bathing goddess and was punished by being turned into a stag and torn apart by his own dogs, one who looked where he shouldn’t would surely face retribution. As a young man, Uccello had assumed Sforza meant this as an argument in favor of divine chastity, but Uccello had later found it applied to a fair number of things. If one went poking his nose in the business of others, one might suffer the consequences. Of course, the reverse of that coin was, one could certainly be rewarded for not observing too closely, that is, looking the other way in certain situations. His presence in that very tavern was testament to that. The fable was an appropriate /sentiment/ for the Church, really. Even if one only took it at face value.

Uccello began to look over the accompanying studies, and noticed that one showed that the man wore an ornate ring, and clutched a letter in his hand. Well, Actaeon was a hunter, so that wouldn’t make sense. When he looked up again, Reni was still looking at him with that scrutinizing stare.

“David and Bathsheba,” Reni corrected.

“Ah, But isn’t David supposed to be peeping on Bathsheba from a roof? Or, is this the messenger delivering David’s letter?”

“No, it’s King David,” Reni pointed at the ornate ring. “I decided to condense the story, since it’s to be only one painting. Besides I thought, it doesn’t matter where he was standing, he was coveting another man’s wife regardless.”

Uccello nodded. Perhaps the story was stronger if David, like Actaeon, sought out the forbidden glance at the bathing beauty, rather than happening upon her by chance. The two stories were not entirely dissimilar.

“He was punished for it. Or,” Uccello clarified, knowing Reni was well-versed in scripture, and unwilling to be corrected on his reading of the text, “for the adultery that followed.” He’d wondered several times whether Reni was particularly devout, and went to sermons and studies often, or if he had some kind of previous theological education. Hadn’t Sforza said Reni’s uncle was living as a monk somewhere?

Reni glanced up at Uccello. “Yes,” he said, cryptic. His eyes were amber in the light cutting across his face through the open window. “But he was forgiven.”

That was true, also. Where Actaeon became a hunted beast, David went on to rule Judea and Israel. He was said to be an ideal king, and an ancestor to Jesus Christ. He was upheld in veneration, despite his transgressions. Something stirred in Uccello. He lifted the study of David’s face. The expression was one of open, earnest longing. It wasn’t the sinful lust Uccello usually associated with the story. Looking up he realized David’s face had Reni’s own heavy brows. He had to laugh. It was just a short, quiet thing, but Reni didn’t seem to know how to react to it. He was suspicious. His fingers formed a fist and then relaxed again.

“What’s funny.” It wasn’t a question. Actually it was more like a threat. Uccello turned the drawing toward Reni.

“You’ve drawn yourself into King David again,” Uccello said.

“I didn’t have any other models on short notice,” Reni defended. “It’s not really a self portrait, anyway.”

“It’s not,” Uccello agreed. “It’s just your eyebrows. And a little bit your lips, I think,” he added, looking between the two faces. “But as I’m sure you know, there’s a regulation against portraits of living people in church decoration. So. Be mindful.” He placed the head of King David down again, tried to imagine the image as it would look in the space, in full color, the figures each larger than life. Or, would Reni render them life size, and their room as well, an illusionistic painting that made the viewer as much the voyeur as David was? It would be as Montreux had said, like one could walk right in.

Uccello must have looked far away, picturing it, because Reni cleared his throat to get his attention.

“There’s another sketch,” he said, directing Uccello’s gaze to the other folded sheet. Uccello glanced at it. The composition was very central, a woman and some cherubs, probably the Assumption of the Virgin. He didn’t think Reni had put as much care into it, though.

“No, this one.” Uccello said, tapping on the corner of Bathsheba’s pool. “It’ll have to be this one.”

“Are you sure? The Assumption is perhaps... thematically appropriate for a Basilica named in the Virgin’s honor.” Reni looked away from the table, across the tavern, as if Uccello’s choice meant nothing to him.

“I’m sure,” Uccello said. “Your heart isn’t in the other one.”

Reni turned back to him with an odd look on his face, but Uccello refused to explain himself. Reni licked his lips, and looked down at his drawing of David and Bathsheba again. He pulled it toward himself.

“So. I’ll start... preparing a cartoon, then,” Reni stated cautiously. “How tall are your walls at home?”

“What?”

“The cartoon will have to be actual size. I’ll take measurements from the Basilica myself, but I’ll have to work on the cartoon in sections at home, since my walls aren’t large enough. If yours are taller, I might be able to bring the sections to you, assemble them, and show you the full-size composition, before I attempt to begin work in the Basilica proper.” The ice in his glass had turned to water, and Uccello had largely ignored the second glass he’d ordered, but Reni paused to drink the last of his wine. “You’ll tell the bishop, by the way, once I begin work I’ll need that chapel closed to the public. I won’t have vandals ruining my work. That would cost you money.”

Uccello frowned at the way Reni saw fit to order him so ungallantly. He could see how the working girls would dislike being his model.

“Fine,” he said. “How long until the cartoon should be done?”

“I won’t go through the trouble of a fully-realized composition only to have you reject it again. I’ll send a messenger when I have a better sketch. We can work from there.”

Uccello pursed his lips, resisting the urge to click his tongue in consternation. So much for Reni’s unspoken apology. He drank a few gulps of wine to steady himself, to keep himself from getting into it with a man who owned a sword. Reni had begun gathering his papers, and Uccello put out a hand to stop him, Reni’s hand landing on top of his as Uccello reached for one of the scraps. The edges of Reni’s fingers were rough, damp from the heat. They stuck to Uccello’s skin slightly. He pulled his hand away slowly, a question in his eyes.

“You wanted to keep this one?” He asked. Uccello looked at it. It was the head of a cherub, laughing sweetly.

“Not particularly. I wanted to give my address.”

“A-ha,” Reni replied. “You didn’t seem to me like a great lover of giggling cherubs.” He pulled a stick from within the flap of his case and held it over the candle on their table until it began to burn. He blew it out decisively, and the smell of woodsmoke wafted across the table to Uccello. “Go ahead then,” he said, flipping over the drawing of the cherub. Uccello was glad Reni didn’t have to see him write.

He gave his address and Reni scrawled it down, in some of the most beautiful script Uccello had seen outside of an illuminated codex. Who was this man, Camilo Reni? He must have had quite an education for his handwriting to be so effortlessly lovely. Else, did it come alongside his artistry? Was the ability to write perfect, flowing letterforms a side effect of his aptitude with the chalk and the brush, marking out the curves of fruit and figures? Uccello knew no other artists, and so, had no way of knowing.

“My walls are somewhat taller than yours,” he said.

Of course, this would mean Reni would eventually have to see his home. It was no palazzo, and Uccello wondered what Reni expected. But, as a man of the cloth, Uccello could claim asceticism as a reason for the modesty of his apartment.

As if Reni would believe him.

Reni shifted all of his papers back into their leather case, and stood from his chair. He jammed his hat back on his head. He watched to see what Uccello would do.

Uccello stood as well, his chair noisily scraping the floor. He put out his hand, allowed Reni to shake it. There was something hanging between them, something unsaid or unexamined, but, unlike David and Actaeon, Uccello knew when to leave well enough alone.

“I’ll wait for your message,” Uccello stated. “You should call upon that same courier, Montreux,” he instructed, and at Reni’s confusion, he said, “So I know it’s your notice.” If he told Reni it was simply because he liked the young man, identified with him, Reni might hire someone else out of spite, but Reni only nodded and made his way back outside into the cloying heat of the city. Once again, Uccello was alone at his table, sipping chilled wine and cursing Camilo Reni.


	4. The Fortune Teller

Thursdays Uccello had to attend the weekly congresso, a meeting of his branch of the Curia, to discuss matters of minor import. Anything major, of course, would have to be brought before His Holiness, but Uccello hoped nothing of that nature would occur, given the Pontiff’s ill health. It was all anyone could talk about, it seemed. Rodriguez, his undersecretary, had been to the papal palace earlier in the week, and Thiebaud and Bianchi had settled in to grill him about it as soon as they’d arrived in their meeting room.

“He looked utterly dreadful,” Rodriguez said, probably for the third time. “Positively green. His eyes and cheeks were sunken like he’d already been dead a week. Such a ghastly shame,” he tutted, and Uccello resigned himself to the fact that they wouldn’t be discussing any matters relating to economics or the public welfare that day.

Rodriguez, Uccello knew, thought this branch of the Curia was a terribly dull appointment, but like all of them, he’d been assigned there by His Holiness. Thiebaud tried to make the most of it, and often reminded them all— somewhat uselessly— that ministering to the poor, caring for them and trying to ease their suffering, was a necessary part of carrying out the will of the Almighty. Bianchi, on the other hand, kept his head down and was clearly biding his time, taking whatever appointment he was given until his ten years as a Cardinal deacon were up, and he could be raised to the level of Cardinal priest. Perhaps he wanted to be a Cardinal bishop one day, like Sforza.

It had been Sforza who told the Pontiff that Uccello had a good head for numbers. That had been the rationale behind placing Uccello at the head of this branch, the Congregation for the Abundance of the Ecclesiastical States. It was yet another reason Uccello was indebted to the Cardinal bishop. Uccello, after all, was younger than both his secretary and undersecretary in the Congregation. It was only through the insistence of someone more influential that he was there at all, and Uccello was determined to exceed expectations in his post out of gratitude. Still, while Rodriguez might resent Uccello for his age, or for trying to make him do his job, and while Rodriguez was also clearly a notorious gossip, Uccello didn’t think he was the one spreading vicious rumors about him throughout the Cardinalate. For one thing, Uccello was the Cardinal-prefect in charge of this Congregation, and if Rodriguez hoped to get a recommendation for a different, more ‘exciting’ branch of the Curia, the best way was through a good word put in by Uccello himself. So these things went: Sforza recommended Uccello, Uccello might one day recommend Rodriguez. It was all hierarchy. It had always been thus.

According to the hierarchy established after the Council of Trent, this Congregation, colloquially called the Congregation for the Annona after the pagan goddess representing the grain store and the dole, was considered fourth most important in the Curia, out of fifteen branches. Rodriguez probably wanted a more glamorous appointment, likely among the ranks of the Congregation for the Inquisition— ranked most important in the Curia. Whereas Uccello’s Congregation was comprised of just four Cardinal deacons (Uccello as Cardinal-prefect, Thiebaud as secretary, Rodriguez as undersecretary, and Bianchi, a year younger than Uccello, as general member), the Congregation for the Inquisition had three times as many appointees. That Congregation was responsible for literal life-and-death decisions. They’d doled out death sentences for sodomy and sacrilege alike.

“I shall pray for him,” Rodriguez went on. “As should we all. But he looks like a ghost of his former self.”

“Do you think he’ll recover in time for Easter?” Thiebaud asked in his high, clear voice. He’d been a choirboy in his youth, and retained something of a song-like quality even when he spoke. Thiebaud was short, thin, and blond with a sort of sharp, boyish face, and Uccello thought off-handedly that if there was a polar opposite to Camilo Reni, Thiebaud would be a good candidate. Even down to their voices: Thiebaud’s light alto, against Reni’s deep, sonorous baritone. Uccello tried to imagine what Reni would be like as a clergyman, and couldn’t quite picture it. Reni had too much challenge in his eyes, too sullen a set to his lips. He’d be more hated than Uccello was, probably.

“Easter?” Rodriguez replied sharply, snapping Uccello out of his thoughts, “It would be a miracle if he made it to Laetare Sunday.”

Uccello felt an odd bolt of anxiety, thinking about the death of the Pope. If, that is, /when/ His Holiness died, then there’d be a conclave. All the Cardinals would have to convene in St. Peter’s to vote for the next Pope. If the next Pope was one of those who had it out for Uccello, he could kiss his deaconry goodbye. He’d be stripped of his red cap. He’d be worse off than he was when he arrived to Rome as a boy. He’d hoped the Pontiff might return to health, and continue his reign long enough for Uccello to build more of a reputation for himself. Reni’s all-important commission would never be done in time if Rodriguez’s grim prediction came true. Laetare Sunday, the halfway point in Lent, was just eleven days away. He almost wanted to adjourn the meeting to send a messenger to Reni right away, but something told him that wouldn’t be welcome. He cracked his knuckles under the table, prompting Bianchi to look up from the pattern he’d been drawing in the corner of a page of figures detailing the Lenten almsgivings in the major basilicas.

“Something the matter, venerable brother?” he asked. It was obvious from his tone that he wasn’t really invested in the answer, so Uccello only shook his head.

Rodriguez, ignoring this, was stroking his chestnut beard as he told Thiebaud that he’d heard people were already placing bets on who the next Pope would be, despite the fact that betting on the results of a conclave had been explicitly outlawed years ago. Uccello, internally thanked heaven that cracking down on gambling wasn’t within the purview of his Congregation. It would certainly make him some enemies among the circles he relied upon for information and favors. By contrast, being in charge of tithings given to the poor and infirm made him quite popular among the lower classes. Uccello had been told by an old beggar that he was the first Cardinal the old man could remember to be at the head the Congregation for the Annona who took his job seriously, and didn’t have a suspiciously bad memory when it came to whose pockets those tithings should go to. Uccello had burned with restrained emotion, at the time, and it hadn’t been until he was at home, staring into the fire in his hearth that he was fully able to parse the feelings that had arisen from that half-blind beggar’s unprompted comment.

Famine and plague had dogged the eternal city as much as they had done to the territories beyond Rome’s walls, and Uccello had grieved over it for most of his life. Grief, over what might have been avoided if the Congregation for the Annona had been ably handled, surged through Uccello once again, seeing the frail wrists and knobby knees of a man who had suffered like Christ had. Anger, at the trend of clergymen to bleed the faithful dry for their own selfish gain, spitting in the face of God. Sorrow, for this one man in particular, his sun-chapped face lined with years of hardship, who may not live to see a better life. It had hardened Uccello’s resolve. He couldn’t let the misdeeds of the past continue. He couldn’t allow the children of God to starve while godly men grew fat off of their appointments. That had been the day he’d decided to make a name for himself, to secure his place within the Cardinalate, whatever it took.

He’d been too young to remember it, when his mother died, but he knew it had been the famine that took her. The plague, thankfully, had not reached their remote village, but there was no avoiding the weather. It had ruined the crops, wrecked the fishing boats. Roofs collapsed and homes flooded. When the weeks of storm subsided, there was barely anything to eat. Mama Solana had never said so, but Uccello suspected that she and his mother had gone hungry so he would not. Mama Solana was perhaps hardier than his mother had been. His mother died in 1575, and Uccello did not remember her face.

Annona, the ancient goddess, gave her name to Uccello’s Congregation, but the word meant also ‘subsistence’, and ‘abundance’. It referred to the /annual/ harvest, the good times, and the bad. She represented the grain store, that foundation of keeping a population alive— like Joseph in Egypt, Uccello would be responsible for giving out grain and alms if there were another famine. He looked around the table at the faces of his three fellow Cardinals. He didn’t think they were bad men, but did they care, in the way he did?

He watched Thiebaud chuckle at the exaggerated face Rodriguez made, imitating one of the doctors he’d met in the papal palace. He watched Bianchi draw a scrolling swirl with his quill, along the bottom of his page of figures, and was reminded of Reni’s effortless lines. If the next Pope cast Uccello out, would one of these men be the next Cardinal-prefect of the Congregation? Or, would His Holiness, whomever he may be, appoint someone else? Uccello’s predecessor, one Jean-Pierre Fouquet, had been promoted to Cardinal priest when Uccello had taken up the head of this little group, and had very soon thereafter returned to his native soil, far beyond Uccello’s reach. Not that Uccello thought often about revenge on him— only when he’d gone to the corner where that half-blind beggar always sat with his bowl, and found him gone, and then every time he passed that spot thereafter. The former Cardinal-prefect of Uccello’s Congregation would return to Rome for the conclave, however, and he’d even be eligible for Pope. Uccello fisted his fingers in the material of his cassock under the table.

“Did you hear what the odds are, venerable brother?” Uccello asked Rodriguez, interrupting a humorous anecdote about an ugly-faced doctor and a small energetic dog.

“Which odds? Oh, you mean for the papacy, whenever the conclave should occur?” He propped his chin up with his fist, elbow on the table. It made his thick beard jut out as if he were pointing at Uccello with it. “Why, are you thinking of putting a few baiocci down, yourself?” It wasn’t supposed to be an unkind question. Uccello assumed it was meant to be a joke. He frowned all the same.

“Well, here we are, supposedly monitoring the economics of the Papal States,” Uccello returned glibly, “I should like to know what people are spending their money on, if it isn’t going into the coffers and collection plates for Lent.”

Rodriguez gave him a shrewd look. “You surprise me, brother,” he said. “I wouldn’t have expected you to want to hear about this base, nefarious stuff.” He straightened, brushed off his mozzetta. “Of course you know /I/ wouldn’t have anything to do with it either. It’s only what I heard whilst out and about.”

Uccello /did/ know that, actually. Any bookie in the city would be a fool to take a bet from a Cardinal like Rodriguez, who wore the signet ring of the Spanish crown. It was far too dangerous.

“Of course,” Uccello agreed indulgently, urging Rodriguez to get on with it.

“/Well/,” Rodriguez said in a conspiratorial tone, “Your friend Cardinal Bishop Sforza has pretty good chances, they say.”

Uccello didn’t change his expression, but knew that at least his position would be safe were Sforza elected.

“As does Peretti,” Rodriguez went on. Well, that was worse, Uccello thought. Peretti was a thorn in his side, to say the least. It was no secret he didn’t think Uccello deserved his red cap, and Uccello wouldn’t be surprised if he found that Peretti was the one telling people about the ignoble circumstances of Uccello’s birth. True as the statements may have been, they were unkind, and it reflected poorly on whomever it was who spread them around. It seemed that Rodriguez knew there was no love between Peretti and Uccello, and was waiting to see Uccello’s reaction to hearing that Peretti was in the running to be the next Pope. Even Thiebaud and Bianchi watched him, as if Uccello was likely to explode in anger.

Uccello didn’t give Rodriguez the satisfaction, but asked if the odds were more or less in Peretti’s favor, by the book keepers’ reckoning. Rodriguez shrugged.

“I just know he’s in a handful of favorites,” Rodriguez defended. Uccello may have to pay a visit to a bookie himself, if he was to gauge the public’s feeling about the next Pope. Not that the public had anything to do with the voting, but still, it would be good to know where the allegiances of the people of Rome lay, in order to plan for future eventualities. He knew he, himself, would not garner any votes in the conclave. He knew also his vote was already cast: he couldn’t betray Sforza. There was nothing any Cardinal could do to mask his vote; they would all be submitted publicly to the group, so Uccello would soon know who the friends of his friends were, and who was the friend of his enemy.

“Well,” Uccello said sharply, standing from the table. “I suppose that’s enough for today. Until next week, venerable brothers?”

Thiebaud looked up from where he’d been watching Bianchi draw. “If you say so,” Thiebaud said, surprised. Uccello knew he was not usually one to adjourn a meeting early. Usually there were plenty of things to discuss. But, with His Holiness on his deathbed and Uccello’s position in clear and present danger, there were other places he’d rather be than trying to get his fellow Cardinal deacons to concentrate on economics. He gathered his things, and was, perhaps for the first time, the first to leave.

What was he to do? It wouldn’t be worthwhile for him to contact Reni so soon. There was nothing to be done for his so-called /legacy/.

Was it possible to learn who would be voting for whom, at the inevitable conclave? He couldn’t draw suspicion. Any efforts he made openly might harm Sforza’s chances, and ultimately make Uccello’s situation worse. Peretti, as it happened, lived not far from the meetinghouse where Uccello’s weekly congresso occurred, and Uccello slowed his horse to a walk outside the gate. It was hard to believe that the villa, where Peretti lived with his extended family, housed such a distasteful man. Doctor Peretti, the Cardinal’s brother, was well liked and well respected. So were the doctor’s wife and children, whom Uccello had met by use of the apothecary the family ran across from the meeting house. Even the villa itself, with its warm pink facade and bright foxglove flowers waving in the wind, was cheerful. So, how was it that Cardinal Peretti, who doubtless was reared in this charming home surrounded by orange trees and berry bushes, grew so shriveled and sour? If Uccello himself was a bit coarse, he felt he had an excuse. Peretti, on the other hand, did not.

Giving the house one last look, Uccello kicked Finale’s sides gently and sped her pace. He sincerely hoped Peretti didn’t have as much support in the Cardinalate as the betting population of Rome seemed to think. Uccello returned his horse to the stable, and made his way home, his mind buzzing. Perhaps he could get Reni to do something small for a local chapel or meetinghouse, to drum up support?

If he lost his position, it wouldn’t matter. Maybe things would be different if he’d been appointed to the Congregation for the Inquisition, instead of the Congregation for the Annona. He’d have had time, then, to work on connections with more Cardinals. Though, it would have made his personal life much harder. He shuddered, even in the intense heat, thinking about how if he had been placed among the Inquisitors, how many friends he’d be obliged to turn in for crimes against God. Pietra would likely get the lash. But worse, men Uccello relied upon for information, men who gave him leverage through their illicit liaisons in exchange for money or protection, would be put to death. His Holiness had a particular fear of sodomy. The artist who decorated his home covered the buttocks of any nude, so terrified was the Pontiff that he should look upon the exposed rear of even a painted figure, and be damned for it. Since the summer after his election, he’d ordered the Inquisitorial Squad to have sodomites dragged behind a horse until they perished, at least one per year. Some were beheaded, some tortured with hot pokers, but at least once a year, one was made an example of, pulled screaming through the streets of Rome until he screamed no more. It was horrible to watch. Uccello had heard that up in Spain, they were still executing convicted sodomites by burning at the stake. He wasn’t sure if that was better or worse, but he hated the thought anyway. People who knew his mother’s name, some of them men who were available to anyone for the right price, had shown him kindness in his youth. On occasion, he’d fixed tax records, or given a few scudi out of his own pocket, so that some of these men wouldn’t wind up in prison for unpaid debts, and then wind up on the gallows for a slip of the tongue.

Uccello was weary when he arrived at his door. It was already sundown, and time for his meal. He wasn’t much of a cook, and ended up with cured meat or dried fish, sliced cheese, and bread dipped in balsamic vinegar most nights, especially during Lent when he felt going out to restaurants too often might be seen as indulgent and meat was forbidden anyway. Now and again he thought of hiring a housekeeper, so someone else could put a hot meal in front of him, and make his tea in the mornings. Sforza could probably even recommend someone. But, it seemed like a bit too much for just his small apartment, so he never brought it up. Still, the thought occurred to him as he washed his dish in the basin, swept crumbs off of the table. He was bone-achingly tired, and it would be nice if he could leave these things for someone else to do. When he was a boy, dishwashing and floor scrubbing were his duties, among others. Maybe it wouldn’t be putting on airs if he was just giving someone else an opportunity for a decent job, as he’d had. This was his his thought as he readied himself for bed, hanging up his cassock and cap, and falling heavily into his mattress.

—————

When Montreux arrived at Uccello’s door the next afternoon, it was significantly sooner than Uccello had expected. He was wearing a somewhat shapeless hat to keep the sun off of his face, which he whipped off and crushed in his nervous fingers as soon as Uccello opened the door.

“Master Reni says he has a sketch worth showing you, if you’ll, that is, when you’re available to see it.”

He flinched as he stumbled over his words, and Uccello suspected the original message from Reni had been significantly less polite.

“Already? My, he’s been busy,” Uccello said, watching Montreux worry the poor hat between his hands. “... is there something else?”

“Well, I wonder if you would like me to report to him when he might expect you.” He thumbed the frayed edge of the brim.

“Mm,” Uccello mused, staring into the pattern of wood grain in the door, thinking about his schedule. “Laetare Sunday isn’t until next week, but things are going to be busy in the Curia,” he thought aloud. “Suppose I’ll just go on over there now. Did he make any indication that he’d be leaving, or do you think he’ll be about if I were to leave now?”

“Oh,” Montreux stuttered, “er, I couldn’t say, sir. He didn’t say much. He did ask for me by name, at the piazza where I usually wait with other couriers for a job. I thought that a little odd but he was quite insistent that I be the one to deliver his message.” He looked perplexed, and his pitiful hat looked like it wouldn’t survive the day if Uccello didn’t intercede.

“I told him to hire you,” he stated briskly, readying himself to leave. “I know it’s a long way but I thought you might be able to use the money, after you told me what a large family you’ve got. How are your sisters?”

Montreux looked almost ready to cry, and Uccello faltered, wondering if something awful had happened in the Montreux household.

“/Oh,/“ Montreux said again, “I feel so guilty, sir.”

Uccello paused, mentally running through any possible ways Montreux could have jeopardized his arrangement with Reni. “Whatever for?” he asked.

“The last time I was here, I took advantage of your generosity, and drank too much of your wine. I’m so terribly embarrassed. I can’t believe I was such a glutton, and during Lent, too!” His fingers bunched in the hat’s material and Uccello had to restrain himself from prying it out of the man’s hands, just to keep it from being ruined. “And now, you’re making sure I get work, and asking after my family, and I don’t deserve it, sir. I indulged in vices, and haven’t been to confession.” He stared fixedly at his boots, blocking Uccello’s exit.

“Here,” Uccello said, prompting Montreux to look up. Uccello raised his hand to the level of Montreux’s forehead and made the sign of the cross over him, quickly. “You’re forgiven,” he stated, almost as an afterthought. He wanted to get to the stable before the day wore on, and Montreux was still in his way. Montreux wavered like he was going to collapse. Poor thing, his anxiety over having gotten drunk on Uccello’s wine had probably eaten at him for days. Uccello made a half step toward the door and only then did Montreux finally move aside. As Uccello locked the door, he noted the way Montreux was attempting to smooth the wrinkles he’d put into the brim of his hat. “If it’s on your way, why don’t you come and meet my horse?” Uccello offered, if only because Montreux seemed rooted to the spot.

“O-oh, really?” He fell in step behind Uccello on the stairs. “You said it was a mare, didn’t you? How old is she?”

“Four, maybe five?” Uccello answered, stepping out onto the street. It was early afternoon and the sun was absolutely brutal. He could feel the heat rising up off the ground, baked in, as much as beating down from above. Montreux smashed his ugly hat back on his head while Uccello squinted into the crowd, fighting past each other on either side of the street, pressed into the narrow strip of shade against the building. He resigned himself to being jostled by the sweaty masses, and started toward the stables, acting unilaterally. With his shoulders back and head held high, he was a bit taller than most people, and drew attention with his scarlet robes. Some people actually did step aside to let him pass, out of respect for his rank, and Montreux followed along in his wake.

“Oh, so you didn’t raise her up from a filly, then?” Montreux said, slightly out of breath from keeping pace with Uccello. “I’ve always thought that’d be nice, to get a newborn foal and care for it until it was old enough to be saddle broken. Teach it to be hand-fed and not bite.”

“Perhaps you should seek out work on a farm,” Uccello suggested, stepping carefully over a fetid gutter to cross a street. “I’m sure you’re healthy enough, with all your running about the city.”

“But the horses wouldn’t be mine,” Montreux replied, a little wistfully. “Besides, I don’t know if I could ever leave Rome. My parents have always told me about the beauty of the countryside in the valley where they grew up, back in France. My oldest sister was born there, too. But that was years before I was born, and I’ve always lived here, so... can’t imagine being anywhere else.”

“I imagine you want to stay close to your family,” Uccello said, motioning for Montreux to follow him down a crooked alley. It was extremely narrow, and reeked with piles of old garbage, but it was a shortcut. The cramped passageway made Uccello wonder about Montreux’s living conditions. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like having nine people to a home. Uccello’s home as a young boy had been modest, to say the least, but it was only him, his mother, and Mama Solana. Then, just Mama Solana and him. If Montreux lived near Reni, his family probably didn’t have more than four rooms.

“We’re close enough, thanks, my family and me,” Montreux replied glibly, confirming Uccello’s suspicions. “I just keep hoping a few of my sisters will get married and move away to live with their husbands.”

“You could be the first, you know. Meet a nice girl, maybe one with a dowry, so you can start a family together? Marry the only daughter of a farmer— then the family’s horses and everything else would pass to you eventually.” They were drawing nearer to the stable, could smell the stinking river on the intermittent breeze. Uccello couldn’t see Montreux’s face, Montreux being a step behind him, but he could hear his nervous laugh.

“My sisters teased me so badly any time I was sweet on a girl, I can’t even talk to a lady anymore without tripping over myself, feeling like I might lose consciousness. It’s a sad state of affairs.” They came to the field with the ruined temple of Mars to the left, the Tiber straight ahead, and off to the right, visible now with the sun glinting off of it, the exposed mortar of the broken wall forming the back side of the stable. Uccello headed in that direction and Montreux followed.

“I suppose you could join the clergy, then,” Uccello said, “if you’re going to be a confirmed bachelor anyway. You’d be given a room, a bed, three meals a day... and then, one day, you might be a Cardinal, or even Pope.”

“Oh! Goodness, I don’t know about that, sir. I’m not very learned.”

Neither had Uccello been, when he’d been taken in by the Sforza household. He’d learned quickly, though, determined to be of use so as to keep his job and his bed, and Montreux didn’t seem like a layabout.

“You can read and write?” Uccello asked. Surely a courier must me able to read, else he’d never find addresses.

“Yes, I used to work in a greengrocer’s, when I was a boy, so I learned letters and numbers there. But it’s nothing like what you must know. And I don’t know Latin.” They could smell the stables, then, the hot, dry straw, the dust, the manure. Uccello elected not to say anything about the informality of his own education, and walked as quickly as he could toward the shade the stable would allow. The cassock and mozzetta didn’t do much to keep him cool, and the red cap was not designed to keep sun off. Giuseppe, the groom, came out to meet them as they approached. His shirt and trousers were filthy, his boots caked with mud, and he was mopping his brow with a rag as Uccello and Montreux stepped into the shade.

“Your eminence,” he greeted, bowing slightly, “Are you here to take Finale out for a trip?” He looked to the side, to where all the horses stood in their individual stalls. Usually they’d be tossing their heads over their wooden fences, nickering, churning the mud with their hooves. That day, they were surprisingly still, only moving their tails and ears to flick flies away. “I really must advise against it,” Giuseppe said, avoiding Uccello’s eyes. “It’s really too hot for her. I’m afraid taking her out for a ride will be dangerous to her health.”

Clearly, Giuseppe didn’t like giving Uccello bad news. Uccello looked down the central walkway between the rows of stalls. He knew where Finale was kept, and she would ordinarily be craning her head over her gate for his attention by now, if she’d noticed he was there. He didn’t even see her soft black nose, and nodded slowly to Giuseppe.

“I understand. Still, I’m going to go over and check on her,” Uccello said, before turning down the aisle between the gates. Montreux trailed after, rummaging in his satchel. By the time they reached Finale’s enclosure, Montreux had found what he was looking for, and unwrapped a cloth parcel containing several dead-ripe figs. They weren’t in season, but the heat had fooled the fruit trees, playing havoc all over the Papal States.

“Will she bite my hand if I give her a treat?” Montreux asked. Finale was standing at the far corner of her little enclosure, leaning into the cool bricks at the back, but she turned her head at the sound of voices, and slowly walked over to them. Giuseppe kept her very well groomed, and her lustrous mane had clearly been trimmed recently. It was all a uniform length, shining in the low light. She hung her head over her gate and nudged Uccello’s shoulder softly.

“I shouldn’t think so. She’s usually far more energetic than this, poor thing.” Uccello gave her velvety nose a stroke as Montreux put a pair of figs in the flat of his hand. She regarded him for a moment with one dark, inscrutable eye, before sniffing his offering. Surprisingly, she was very delicate in picking up each fig with her lips, chewing slowly.

“She is a beautiful horse,” Montreux said. “Such a glossy coat. She must be very healthy.”

“That’ll be Giuseppe’s doing. Come to think of it, I’m surprised you don’t work in a stable like this one, given your appreciation for the animals.”

“I did, but only for a summer. One cruel man owned three horses there, and he’d take them out even in blazing heat, ride them until the poor creatures were nearly falling down, whip them bloody. I couldn’t handle it.” He stroked Finale’s muscular neck. Uccello didn’t know anything about the other horses in this stable. He didn’t know who their owners were or how those riders treated their animals. He had to admit, he’d never even thought of it before.

“Well, Giuseppe knows what he’s doing, so I defer to his judgement when it comes to the care and keeping of my horse. It’s a foolish man who pays an expert and then ignores his advice.” Besides which, Uccello thought privately, Finale had been rather expensive. He didn’t want to endanger her needlessly, as he wasn’t eager to buy another horse.

Montreux gave a shy smile. “I suppose that’s so.” Finale nudged him this time, seeking more treats, but he brushed his hands off on his trousers and stepped back. “Will you still go to see Master Reni, now? It’s a bit of a ways to walk, but there’s a shortcut, oh, I don’t know the name of the street, but it passes this ruined bath, near an aqueduct...”

Uccello watched Montreux gesture in a general easterly direction, but that description could match near any place in Rome.

“Why don’t you show me,” Uccello suggested, hoping the route would be more shaded than not.

They set off through the city, Montreux leading him this time, remarking on things as they passed: a shop that sold good pastries, a carved archway with hauntingly worn figures, a vendor selling flowers off the back of a cart.

“My sister Marguerite is in love with a flower seller,” he commented. “He brings her new blossoms almost every day and she braids them into her hair. I don’t know why he hasn’t asked her to marry him. My parents are beginning to grow concerned that she’s not the only rose on his bush, if you know what I mean.”

Uccello hummed noncommittally. It seemed it wasn’t the wine last time that made Montreux so talkative. It appeared to be his very nature.

“She goes for long rides with him on his cart and leaves all her housework undone. I’ve been doing half of her chores myself so they don’t pile up.”

“When do you find time?” Uccello asked honestly. “I’d expect this job keeps you fairly busy.” They’d come to another alley between buildings, and it was blessedly cool in the shade. The paving stones were uneven, and Uccello had to watch his feet, more than Montreux’s face.

“I don’t mean to complain so much,” Montreux said. “Only, I was up quite late doing some mending, and we’re going through candles rather quickly these days. I’m trying to earn extra doing this job, to buy more, but of course, the later I am with this kind of work, the later it is before I get started on the work at home. So that’s more candles then. It’s not a stable situation.”

They stopped at a street corner to allow a koci-wagon, laden with servants in livery and drawn by a pair of white horses, to pass. As Montreux stared bleakly at this blatant and frankly tacky display of wealth, Uccello could see from his tired, resigned expression that Montreux was stretched fairly thin.

“Are you a good hand with a needle and thread, then?” Uccello asked, suddenly remembering a piece of embroidered cloth Mama Solana kept in a drawer. His mother had made it, carefully placing each stitch to draw out a little bird, a twig, and a flower. It was an amateur attempt, not particularly skillful, but very dear. Mama Solana was always very careful with it, worried it would unravel. ‘This is us,’ she had told him, a few times. ‘Obviously the bird is you. The flower is your mother. The twig is me, holding you both up. That’s what she said, when she was making it.’ Then, she’d get a hard look in her eyes, and put the cloth away again.

“Oh, I do well enough,” Montreux said, concentrating on his footing as well, and oblivious to the turn of Uccello’s thoughts. “I got all the same chores my sisters did, obviously. Maybe if I’d been the first born instead of the last, I’d have avoided that. Gone to school or something. But it’s not so bad. These are things I’d have to know if I lived alone.”

Uccello hummed again, and thought about his meager supper the night before, and cursory clean up after. Yes, they were things one had to know if one didn’t have help in that arena, but that didn’t make them enjoyable tasks.

“I was just thinking to myself last night that I ought to hire somebody to help me out with those sorts of things. I used to be able to scrub a floor quite happily,” Uccello said, almost wincing when he realized he might’ve been showing his common roots, “but after hours of meetings at the Curia, going back and forth across Rome, performing rites, and so on and so forth, I barely have the wherewithal to even cut my bread. You’ve far more energy than I, that’s certain.”

“Would you like to give one of my sisters a job, then? Get her out of the house?” Montreux joked. “I’d do Henriette’s chores too, if it would get me a few hours of quiet. She fancies herself an accomplished singer, you see. She does a capella madrigals as she hangs out the laundry and sweeps the steps, convinced some grand duke will happen by, hear her /incredible range/ and invite her to sing for his wedding, where she’ll meet a lonely nobleman and be carried away. It scares even the tomcats off.”

Grimacing at the thought of some young woman caterwauling in his front room, her voice echoing off of the high ceiling, Uccello snorted dismissively. “That’s hardly an endorsement,” he said wryly. Montreux laughed.

“Well, you ought to know something of a person’s character before you hire them into your home,” Montreux commented. “But she’s the only one of my sisters who is really available. My oldest sister, Paulette, I think she may become a nun—“

“You told me,” Uccello cut in. Paulette, then, was the ugly one.

“Yes, then there’s Claudine, who is a laundress and works as many hours as I do. Louise, who works in a tavern and comes home raging most nights that once she gets enough money together she’ll never wash another dish as long as she lives, then Marguerite who won’t work so long as her flower boy’s about, Marie, who cannot keep a job for more than half a year before having some kind of disaster, then Henriette, the ‘singer’, then me.”

“Perhaps you should take the job, then,” Uccello said. At first, he’d meant it as a joke, but the second he’d said it, he realized it would make quite a bit of sense. He already knew he got along with Montreux, knew he had a good work ethic and strong morals, and that he was skillful with that sort of household drudgery Uccello rarely had time or energy for. It would invite less commentary than suddenly hiring on a young woman to live in his home, when he never had before, and would mean he always had an efficient messenger on hand as well.

Montreux laughed again, but Uccello put out a hand.

“Think about it,” he said. “I would convert the downstairs room, put a bed and a basin in it. I think it would work out nicely. But you needn’t decide this instant, and I shan’t be offended if you’d rather continue in your fashion as a messenger. It must give you some freedom, your job.”

Montreux was quiet, and Uccello decided not to press the issue. They walked companionably for a time, beneath the arches of aqueducts and past municipal fountains. At Quattro Fontane, Uccello’s eyes fell on the reclining figure of Juno under a tree, a swan carved at her feet in an eternally affronted pose. Could the swan be Jupiter? Uccello studied the fountain for only a moment before pressing on, but he still tried to remember the details of the story. Jupiter transformed himself into a swan in order to copulate with a human woman. Uccello had seen numerous depictions of the subject, some more lewd and strange than others. Was there a particular reason the pagan god had needed to be a swan to do the deed? Uccello couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember if Jupiter or Leda had been punished for the act, either. Juno, he thought, was regarded as a jealous goddess. If she were anything like the Almighty, she would have made Jupiter and Leda suffer for the adultery and lust, as David suffered for laying with Bathsheba.

Would Reni depict that torment, somehow? David mist have known that what he was doing was abomination in the eyes of the Lord. Would Reni show the conflict in his face, a hesitation in his stance? He’d been brazen thus far... Uccello hoped that Reni could be reined in somewhat.

“Sir,” Montreux said, and Uccello shook himself slightly to bring his mind back from its wanderings. “If you’re serious about offering me the job as your housekeeper, would I get room and board?”

“Obviously,” Uccello tutted. “And shall we say, two scudi a month to start with?” That had been what he’d been paid at about Montreux’s age. He wasn’t sure what the current trends were in wages for house staff. Sforza would probably know.

“Gracious,” Montreux murmured, watching his feet. “That’s... certainly something to think about.” He fussed with his hat, shifting the way it sat on his head. Uccello wondered if perhaps it hadn’t been such a shapeless thing, to start with— if Montreux had worried all the style right out of it.

“Well, I hope you do,” Uccello urged.

From there, the conversation shifted again. Coming up on the right, they could see it: the Basilica upon which Uccello’s future hinged. Montreux couldn’t know that of course, but he pointed out its distinctive bell tower all the same, in the same way he’d noted other sights the entire time they’d been walking. Uccello of course already knew a few things about it.

“That Basilica has the tallest bell tower in Rome,” Uccello said. “And its ceiling is gilded with gold from the New World. Have you ever been to services at this here?”

Montreux took in the facade with its ancient columns. “No sir. We attend a smaller church than this one.”

It really was a grand thing, Uccello thought. He tried to look at it through Montreux’s eyes, as though he’d never been inside, as though seeing that campanile for the first time as it reached for the heavens.

“A church has been on this spot for over a thousand years,” Uccello commented. “It’s one of the city’s oldest. You really should come for the feast day in August. The bishop puts on a spectacular show.”

And, with any luck, Reni’s masterpiece would be completed by then, and Uccello would have fewer things to worry about.

It wouldn’t be much farther to Reni’s apartment. Uccello knew it, but still Montreux said as much, commenting on the sight of the top of the Aurelian Wall cresting over the residential buildings, its red brick meeting white travertine at the once-grand Porta Maggiore. As they passed an alley which met its end against the ancient rampart, Uccello spied someone collecting water from a spout tapped into the section of aqueduct running atop its battlements. Technically this was theft; it interfered with the flow of water into the public basins. But, it wasn’t Uccello’s job in the Curia to monitor the aqueducts. The thief spotted him, though, and scurried off. Such was the life of a Cardinal. The very sight of him could trip a guilty conscience.

Montreux seemed unconcerned. It was likely a common occurrence this far from the river, citizens pilfering water from the Acqua Claudia for their bowls and their basins. Indeed, Montreux likely lived not far away as well.

“Will you go home after this? Look after your sisters?” Uccello asked him, as they neared the white plaster walls of Reni’s building.

Montreux shrugged. “I might go back to the plaza, see if I can pick up a few more jobs before it gets dark.”

“Very noble,” Uccello said, sighting Reni’s building not far down the road. “If your eldest sister truly wants to join a convent, by the by, I recommend the sisters of San Girolamo. True, it’s near the Ortaccio, but I happen to know they have a well-stocked cellar, so your sister won’t go hungry even if the harvests should fail.” Caupa Pietra had always been very generous to the Sisters, after all. Uccello wondered if the good women of the convent ever turned a blind eye to what went on beneath Pietra’s tavern— if they knew about it as Uccello did, and chose to ignore it in favor of a mutually beneficial arrangement. Pietra had never mentioned it, if so, but if Uccello helped Montreux’s sister get placed in a good convent, he imagined she might be helpful to him somewhere down the line, if he needed it.

“I’ll tell her,” Montreux said. “And... I’ll think about your offer. I’ll need to tell my parents. And pack my things. If I’m to move. Good heavens, how would I get all of my things across the city?” He seemed to be thinking aloud, but Uccello answered him anyway:

“Perhaps your sister’s flower boy could be persuaded to loan you his cart.”

“Doubtful, but I’m getting ahead of myself. I thank you, sir.” He whipped off his hat to give a deep bow, and Uccello rifled in his bag for Montreux’s payment. Uccello dropped the coins into Montreux’s palm, just as they reached the steps to Reni’s apartment.

“You know where to find me,” Uccello said, before turning and ducking into the building, and starting up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, there is art related to this story on my tumblr, where I can be found under the same username.


	5. A Boy Bitten by a Lizard

Compared to the sweltering heat outside, it was blissfully cool inside Reni’s building. The tiles beneath his feet, and the plaster walls, were chilled in the dark, just one high window on Reni’s landing bringing sunlight in. Uccello climbed the stairs and let his fingers trail along the wall, imagining the heat bleeding out of his fingertips and into the bare plaster. At Reni’s landing, he paused, brushing off his mozzetta and cassock, smoothing his appearance hastily. The small table to his left was still piled with mail, and there was still more spilled onto the floor. For the first time Uccello wondered who sent all these letters to this cantankerous artist. Were they from other patrons? People whom Reni had slighted? Amorous lovers? He resisted the urge to snoop, and instead, knocked solidly on the door.

“If that’s you, messenger boy, you can put the Cardinal’s reply on the hall table,” came Reni’s voice from within. “I’m working.”

“It isn’t,” Uccello answered. He disliked shouting through a door. He set his teeth and tried not to let irritation get the best of him. “I should like to see your progress.”

The door swung open suddenly.

“You!” Reni said, looking Uccello over with a strangely wild look. Or perhaps that was just the effect of his unkempt hair and the sweat gleaming on his face and on the broad section of his chest exposed by his open shirt. He looked a bit like the tales of gladiators from centuries ago: menacing, muscular, glistening with oil. Uccello frowned at himself.

“Me,” he said. “I’m told you have a new drawing to show.”

“Ah, well,” Reni equivocated, which struck Uccello as unusual. Ordinarily, Reni acted fairly unilaterally. Reni looked behind himself, still holding the door so Uccello couldn’t pass. “Perhaps now is not a good time,” he said.

“I’ve walked a very long way,” Uccello stated, annoyance flaring. “What’s the matter with you? You sent a messenger to say you had something, and now you don’t?”

Reni grimaced. “Alright, if that’s the way you’re going to be,” he huffed, stepping aside for Uccello to enter. Once Uccello was across the threshold, he saw the sketch for his piece, David and Bathsheba more clearly rendered than in the smaller one he’d brought to their last meeting. He also saw, beside it, several more drawings, all of them heads and busts. All of them depicted him. Uccello approached slowly, very surprised to see his own face, many different expressions, peering out from the paper.

“I told you before I didn’t think I’d gotten your face just right, with that last drawing,” Reni defended sulkily. “I’m just trying to figure out what I’m doing wrong. It’s difficult, doing it from memory.”

Uccello wanted to reach out and touch the lines, but stopped himself just short of the page. The largest one made him blush. He didn’t think he’d ever looked at Reni like /that/... at least, he hoped not. The expression was sly and knowing, like someone sitting on a secret. Reni had gone so far as to add a bit of color to this one, in pastel, the terra-cotta color of the paper lending warmth to the flesh and brightness to Uccello’s hair, which Reni had drawn without his hat. There was a ghost of a smile haunting his features, in the drawing, and an elegance to the careless gesture of the visible hand. Uccello turned, but Reni didn’t meet his gaze. He looked bashful, and Uccello assumed the artist hadn’t meant for him to see these. Perhaps they were unfinished.

“Are you applying to paint my portrait?” Uccello asked, wondering if Reni needed the money.

“After this commission, if you want it. But,” he moved to Uccello’s side and directed his attention to the larger drawing of David and Bathsheba. “Let us focus upon this, first.” He still had his eyes downcast, and wouldn’t look Uccello in the eye— an embarrassed gesture Uccello would never have expected from the man. It only drew attention to his long lashes, and the sullen tilt of his lips. Uccello looked over his shoulder at his self portrait as David the young hero. While the painting looked like the man beside him, Uccello felt as though Reni had a mercurial face, looking almost like a different person from one moment to the next. Furthermore, Reni was allowing his facial hair to grow out more, and it made him look far older than he did as David.

Uccello returned his attention to the sketch in front of him, and studied the figures. Thankfully, Reni hadn’t posed himself as King David this time, but while Bathsheba’s pose was well-realized, the chemise clinging to her slim body, her delicate hands holding its hem away from the water, her face wasn’t drawn in but for a rough suggestion of the placement of features.

“Bathsheba isn’t done, then?” Uccello asked. David’s face was already fairly detailed. He had a proud nose and a sharp chin, befitting of a king.

“Ah, I’m having difficulty finding an appropriate model. For some reason, they were all busy when I went to find one yesterday.”

Uccello hid his smirk. He had it on good authority where Reni usually went for models, and knew that most of the working girls found him difficult to abide.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll find one eventually.” He’d have a word with Pietra himself, if need be. “Remember of course that the Church forbids recognizable portraits in wall decoration.”

“I know,” Reni answered. Ordinarily that kind of reminder would annoy the artist, but instead, Reni seemed distracted. “The composition is to your liking? The background elements? What about the way your eye travels, is it acceptable?”

Uccello turned slowly to regard the other man. Was this a joke? Was he punishing Uccello for what he perceived as being too picky? Reni didn’t look at him, only studied his own drawing critically. Uccello’s eyes were drawn again to the paper, by the force of Reni’s focus.

“Those are your areas of expertise,” Uccello conceded. “I have nothing to add.”

Only then did Reni look at him. “You like it?”

“You seem surprised,” Uccello answered.

“I am. Thus far, you haven’t liked anything I’ve done, besides that small drawing of yourself. I wonder, actually, if that’s why I keep drawing you.”

Uccello chuckled. “Because that’s what got you the most positive response? That’s no way to run a business.” He gestured at the cluster of pages depicting his likeness. “Why, all a patron would need to do is ply you with a little flattery and he’d have all the portraits he could dream of.”

Reni chewed his lip in a forced manner, his dark eyes fixed on Uccello’s face for a long moment. Maybe he was memorizing it for the next portrait.

“It isn’t flattery, coming from you. You meant it.”

Uccello’s heart missed a beat. Reni spoke as if he knew Uccello well, could read his goals and intentions as clearly as words on a page. Strange, very strange.

“Besides,” Reni went on, “you seem like the sort of man to detest giving flattery. A false compliment from you would be an insult of the highest order.”

Uccello was shocked. How had Reni divined that, exactly? “How do you figure that?” Uccello asked.

“A compliment you didn’t mean would suggest you disparaged my intelligence,” Reni said, explaining nothing. Uccello stared at him. He’d never thought about it, but once Reni said the words, Uccello understood them to be true.

“Do you always do this to your patrons?” Uccello asked. “Do you frequently make personal observations like that?”

“Not out loud,” Reni replied, obviously failing to hide a smirk. “My observations are rarely the sorts of things I’d tell someone to his face.”

Uccello answered Reni’s mean smile. “Are you hiding any such things from me?” He only meant to tease, but Reni’s face fell, hesitantly. He looked over Uccello’s shoulder at the many portraits he’d done.

“Not as such,” Reni said, before picking up some charcoal from a small spindly table and adding some richer darkness to the curtain separating David from Bathsheba. Uccello watched Reni work for a moment.

“I actually do like this one too, you know,” Uccello commented. “I wouldn’t have you paint it into one of the seven pilgrim basilicas if I didn’t.”

Reni pressed his mouth into that bitten line again. “I suppose you must,” he said, still building up shadows in his drawing. “I can prepare the cartoon then.”

“Yes,” Uccello said absently. There was something hypnotic about watching Reni run the charcoal over the paper.

“It may take a week or more. It’s large, and quite detailed. Shall I find your man, Montreux, when it’s ready? Recall that I’ll need to bring it to your home.”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Any messenger will do. Montreux may not be available.”

For a moment, it struck him, the beauty of this image even as a charcoal drawing. Even without Bathsheba’s face. Her diaphanous shirt, David’s hand clutched in the heavy drapes, the ripples in the water, the intimacy of the light... Uccello couldn’t imagine yet what it would look like as a fully-completed painting, but he was strangely proud of whatever influence he’d had to bring the image into being. Again, he frowned at himself for these frivolous thoughts he’d been having, and shook himself out of the daze he’d been in.

“I shall see you then,” Uccello stated, stepping back from the wall. Reni turned, considered him. He had a smudge of charcoal along one cheekbone, where he must have scratched himself with a dirty hand. Without thinking, Uccello reached out, swiped at it with his thumb. The sweat on Reni’s face made it easy to clear away, and Reni didn’t flinch. His eyes squinted just slightly, when Uccello’s hand touched his face, but he allowed the mark to be wiped away without comment. For an instant, Uccello noted the contrast, his pale hand against Reni’s more tanned, more olive-toned skin. It was a funny detail to notice, and Uccello drew his hand away, struggling with Reni’s continued silence.

Finally, Reni nodded, and Uccello left, thinking what a strange man Reni must truly be to inspire Uccello into flights of fancy. He hesitated at the door to the street, feeling more than seeing Reni watching him from the landing. Only because he wasn’t eager to go back out into the heat, he told himself. His hand stalled on the jamb, and he willed himself to keep walking, to pass through the portal and back into the public street, but still he stayed, for a moment too long, fighting the urge to look over his shoulder. There was nothing unusual about a man watching a guest leave his home. Uccello stepped out onto the cobbled thoroughfare, and the spell was broken. He began the long walk home.

—————-

Two days later, after Sunday mass, Uccello rode home in the late afternoon, feeling, for the first time in what felt like ages, a breeze stirring his hair and ruffling Finale’s forelock. Perhaps the heat wave would finally break, like a fever, and it would be properly spring again. Uccello hoped so. The grain stores were still not all the way up to pre-famine levels, and the longer the weather behaved erratically, the more likely it was that the crops would fail. That would be... difficult, for his small office at the Curia. Fine enough that there were only four of them, when the harvest was good, but if anything should happen, he’d very much begrudge the Congregation for the Inquisition their higher membership. Already he could see fruit trees in the gardens of Rome’s elites, blooming well ahead of season. He allowed Finale to nibble a little from the branches hanging over a garden wall, and remembered the random assortment of objects Reni had been drawing when Uccello first called at his apartment. Crushed blossoms and fruit he’d never have gotten if not for the unseasonable heat. It hadn’t been as hot all Sunday as it had been on Friday, though, so perhaps there was hope.

Uccello was still careful not to overwork Finale, though, and returned her to Giuseppe, the groom, before the sun had even begun to set. As he walked home, he dropped a few coins into the beggar bowl of an old woman he knew, who had given him valuable information in the past. She crooked a finger at him before he stepped away, and he paused.

“That older Cardinal, what’s his name, the one with the fancy cart. He was here, looking for you. One of his servants was asking around if anyone had seen you today.”

“Well obviously I was at mass,” Uccello answered, confused. Sforza ought to have been, too, but of course, Sforza didn’t travel half an hour to a Basilica so far from his home. And, his koci-wagon cut travel time considerably.

“That’s what your manservant told him, but I overheard, and it seems the Cardinal Bishop is very anxious to speak with you. You should have seen the looks on his servants’ faces. Like someone pissed in their kettles.”

Uccello frowned. His manservant? What was that about? And what could Sforza want on the Lord’s Day? What had him in such a temper that his staff was going about looking so misused the average person could see it? He thanked the woman and said a blessing over her, before hurrying home to see what was going on.

Montreux was there, leaning against the wall by his door with a small knife and whetstone, sharpening the blade while he waited. Well, that explained one thing: Sforza’s servant must have seen Montreux standing there and taken him for Uccello’s employee. Montreux would have naturally assumed that Uccello was at mass, and reported that to Sforza’s man without thinking anything of it.

“Montreux,” Uccello greeted, “I’m a little surprised to see you.”

“I went to the early services at our local church and came straight over here from there,” Montreux said, fumbling a little as he tried to remove his hat at the same time as stowing his knife and whetstone. “I spoke to my family about your offer.”

“And are they in favor?” Uccello withdrew his keys, but waited for Montreux to answer instead of unlocking his door.

“Not really,” Montreux said, with an embarrassed shrug, “which more or less made up my mind.” He extended his hand. “I would like to take the job, if you’re still amenable.”

Uccello exhaled a short laugh through his nose, and shook Montreux’s hand. “Welcome aboard, then.”

Uccello proceeded indoors and allowed Montreux to follow him. Together they crossed the sitting room and Uccello pushed open the door to the spare room he’d never managed to convert into a study. Reni’s small portrait was still propped up on top of Uccello’s chest of drawers, and Montreux bent to look at it.

“Ohh, did Mr. Reni do this? It looks just like you,” Montreux commented, clearly impressed.

“That was the first missive you brought me from him, yes. No note or anything, just this drawing he apparently did from memory. He really is a strange man.” Uccello wouldn’t admit out loud that he often came into this room only to look at this drawing, to bring it over to the window and inspect it in the light. Was it prideful, to be so frequently looking at his own face? Maybe so, but it was still surprising every time he looked at it, to see the sharp expression Reni had given him, the intelligent glint to his eyes.

“I can see why you’re hiring him to do paintings for you, then. Is he doing your portrait?”

“I have a different commission for him,” Uccello said, thinking of all of the other sketches Reni had done of his face without prompting. “This, I think was some form of apology, for being difficult to work with.”

“At least he realizes that,” Montreux said, and then covered his mouth, belatedly noticing how that sounded. He clearly didn’t want to speak ill of an associate of his new employer.

Uccello flashed him a wry smile. “At the very least,” he agreed. “Anyway,” Uccello went on, “I would like to make this your room, if that’s acceptable. We can have a bed brought in here, and a wash stand. An armoire for your clothes, perhaps.”

“I don’t have that much clothing,” Montreux piped up, fussing again with his hat. Uccello presumed Montreux was worried about the expense of all that furniture.

“I’d prefer to keep what you do have neat,” Uccello replied honestly. Montreux didn’t protest anymore after that. Uccello walked him through the rest of the house, and the sorts of things he’d hoped to hire someone else to do: some shopping, some cleaning, what little mending he had, laundry, a morning and evening meal. He was content to keep his own bedroom tidy, and did not need help in there, nor did he expect Montreux to be at his beck and call. Though he didn’t explain why, he truly found that sort of behavior distasteful, had experience with important people who shouted for their servants at every dropped napkin. /The Lord helps those who help themselves/ had been a piece of advice he returned to again and again.

Montreux accepted all of Uccello’s instructions without complaint, and answered quickly when asked about his skills at various domestic tasks. He seemed to peer into the spare room downstairs each time they passed it, as if unbelieving it would still be there waiting for him the next time he looked. If he was that eager to have his own bedroom, Uccello realized he’d have to be quick about getting that furniture.

Montreux left, with promises to return as soon as he had things sorted out at his parents’ home. From the sound of it, this consisted of packing what little clothing he had into a trunk of personal effects, and finding some way to transport that across the city. Uccello vowed to go to the furniture market soon, and to have his chest of letters moved elsewhere. He’d have to find the key, as well. Of course, thinking of the chest of drawers reminded him of the portrait atop it, and he drifted back into that room again, took up the drawing, and almost without thinking, carried it upstairs to his bedroom. It would be safer there, if he was going to have furniture movers tromping around downstairs. Yes. He set it among his books, facing out, stood back from it, and then couldn’t bear the conceit of keeping an image of his own face staring at him in his own bedroom. Wealthy men had their portraits done. Kings and popes and nobles saw it as a matter of course. Uccello suddenly felt farther away from that world than he had in some time. Who on earth would want to gaze upon his own face, day in, day out, staring him down from out of a gilded frame? Uccello laid the drawing flat on a side table, and left it at that.

Reni must do a fair trade in portraits, for all his skill with them. Uccello would wager that portrait painting was where all the money was. It would introduce an artist to the right people, and as people were constantly having children and buying new outfits and accessories they’d like to show off to the world in perpetuity, a portrait artist, Uccello reasoned, would never go hungry. He began stripping out of his clerical garb and washing up. It was early yet, but the day had worn on him: travel, mass, public appearances, making nice with the bishop of his cherished Basilica, travel, then Montreux turning up unexpected. He sat on his bed, tired, but unable to quiet his mind.

What sort of bed should he get for the spare room? Why was it that he’d never seen any portraits in progress in Reni’s studio, besides the one large self portrait, and the many smaller drawings of Uccello himself? Was there anything in his home he should lock up while movers were coming in with new furniture? Would Reni start his own workshop someday, or was he content to work and sleep and eat and live, all in the same single room? In fact, with all of his demonstrable skills, why did he live in such spare accommodations? Uccello lay back atop his bedcovers and stared at the canopy overhead. He rarely drew the curtains around his bed, preferring to rise early, but he’d have to if he planned on going to bed while it was still fairly light out. He pulled the cords loose and the drapes fell around his bed, slightly dusty. Perhaps he’d been premature in saying he didn’t need help cleaning in the master bedroom.

Reclining in his pillows, Uccello let his eyes adjust to the dim, red-tinted light within the confines of his curtained bed. The carmine drapes were not too dissimilar from the fall of his mozzetta and cassock, if he thought about it. He yawned. It felt close and comfortable inside this solitary space, closed off from the rest of the house. Unbidden, he remembered the third sketch Reni had presented to him: Phinehas the priest goring a pair of amorous heretics with a spear as they lay together within their traveling tent. That space, draped with fabric, was nearly as close as the one in which he lay. Safe, protected, until the couple was savagely stabbed with a pike for the sin of their fornication. How could Reni have thought that was appropriate for the wall of a church? If the intimacy of the blasphemers’ positions weren’t enough, the violence of /a priest/ spearing them in a two-fold act of penetration was unthinkable. Something hot and frightened curled in Uccello’s gut, thinking of Reni marking out those lines, bringing to life this scene of sexual depravity and bloodshed. Was he trying to say something with it? About the church? About Uccello himself? He rolled over and pulled a lightweight blanket over himself. David and Bathsheba was a much better choice. True, it was also a story of sin and punishment, but also, one of redemption.

Uccello allowed his eyes to fall shut, thinking of the aching clutch of David’s hand in the curtain separating him from the bathing beauty. It was a pained, possessive gesture, as though David clawed the fabric as a last fragile lifeline before he committed a grave sin. As though he wished to hold Bathsheba as tight and as close as he did that final drape. Faceless Bathsheba, her beauty one that Uccello could only guess at so long as Reni was without a model, as yet unaware of her king’s covetous desire for her. Uccello drifted off to sleep, imagining the sparkle of sunlight on the water, the echo of King David’s voice across the rooftop bath as he finally gave in and called to her.

He awoke suddenly, unaware of how much time had passed, or what time it was. It was dark within his curtains, and his heart beat fast, sweat clinging to his skin. He was on his stomach, thighs spread, and could feel arousal still coursing within him, shame curdling his belly as he realized he was erect and pressing his hips into his mattress. He must have been rutting against it in his sleep. Fragments of the dream came to him, nonsensical and unconnected: /Reni tacking up a canvas divide, to hide them from an open window. Uccello reaching for him and being unable to catch him. Reni stroking down Uccello’s naked back, promising him pleasure. Uccello pulling up his cassock to expose himself./

In his bed, Uccello flushed almost painfully. He blinked rapidly as if that would clear the lurid images from his mind’s eye.

/Reni reaching between Uccello’s spread legs, glaring down at him as he stroked him too, too slowly./

Uccello brought a hand up to cover his mouth. He rarely had erotic dreams, and when he did, they were usually tinged with fear. There was an element of being chased, about them. He’d always assumed that they were nightmares about sin finding him, or else, something to do with the prostitutes and rentboys he plied for information. One couldn’t associate with those who sold sex without thinking of the act. This was different. It was so vivid, and his body’s reaction so intense, he felt watched even in the safety of his curtains, as though if he rolled over and allowed his still persistent erection to point skyward, it would be revealing it to Heaven. Of course he knew this was ridiculous. The Almighty was ever-present, and if Uccello meant anything by this dream, if there had been intent behind it, then he would be damned already.

However, he couldn’t understand it. Surely there was no intent there. It was just the wanderings of a mind wracked with stress, and it had landed upon Reni because... what, because he represented every aspect of a forbidden liaison? Because he’d been on Uccello’s mind as he pored over what needed to be done to keep his position? Where had these images even come from? He’d never, never even /considered/, never even before he’d become part of the Church and it had been offered to him by boys his age, who knew he had a well-paying job in a noble house. Some of them had become worthwhile connections as they aged into their chosen professions, and some still made overtures at him, but he’d always assumed this was so they’d have a little material on him, should they need it, or for the pay a Cardinal might offer. They trusted him not to turn them over to the Inquisition, but that didn’t mean he /desired/ them. He was a man of the cloth! He pulled a pillow over his head.

/Reni’s lips, drawn into a pout, waiting for a kiss./

He pressed the pillow down harder. How dreadful, to be plagued by these visions. He’d have to wait, hold still and think of something else until he could get his body under control, then perhaps his mind could be mastered as well.

Sometime later, as Uccello lay motionless waiting for his erection to go away, he dropped off to sleep again. When he awoke, it was with the quickly-fading memories of an inconsequential dream about attending a wedding. He thought the bride and groom might have been Pietra and Montreux, and smirked to himself imagining how she would tower over him. He threw open the curtains and planted his feet on the cold floor, determined to put any other nighttime imaginings out of his mind. He had other things to attend to, and as long as he remained focused, he was sure he’d soon forget about his odd Reni-focused dream.

He was mostly successful, working through Monday and Tuesday going over records for his department at the Curia, making a few purchase at the furniture market, and visiting with Pietra.

“San Girolamo’s tells me there’s a new girl joining them soon,” Pietra commented, as she scrubbed a window near Uccello’s table. “Sister Catarina says it’s strange that this girl specifically chose their convent, since she comes from the other side of the city.” The heat hadn’t gone completely, but now, after sundown, it was less oppressive. Still, Pietra was working up a sweat, cleaning the residue from burning candles off the inside of her windows. The smoke left distinctive streaks on the glass, a tapering line of soot, which seemed difficult to scrub off, based upon Pietra’s effortful work with a cake of soap and a bristle brush.

“Ah, that must be Paulette,” Uccello replied, pulling a slice of bread into smaller morsels.

“How did you know that?” Pietra asked, placing one hand on her hip as she straightened up, rolling her shoulders and cracking her neck so loudly that a few patrons turned.

“I am acquainted with her brother. She’s the eldest of, I can’t remember, six or seven. He’s the youngest, and the only boy. He used to work as a messenger, but I’ve hired him to help out at home, and he mentioned his oldest sister was considering joining a nunnery. I suggested this one,” he nodded in the direction of the convent, “since I happened to know they can count on a nice donation from the local businesses for their feast days.” He raised his eyebrows at Pietra, who pursed her lips.

“Sounds like you’re doing quite a lot for that family, Cardinal.” She moved over to the window nearest Uccello’s table, out of earshot of other customers. “Any particular reason why?”

Uccello thought about it. “Not really,” he said. “The one I’ve hired, Delphine Montreux—“

“Delphine?” Pietra cut in, almost smiling.

“Yes, he knows it’s a feminine name. He’s probably nineteen or twenty, and reminds me somewhat of myself at that age.”

“Ah, I see,” Pietra murmured slyly, wringing a rag into a bucket. “That’s how it is. He’s your protégé, or else the brother you never had.”

Uccello shrugged. “Perhaps so. Nothing wrong with that. Sforza took me under his wing, why shouldn’t I pass on that pattern of goodwill?”

Pietra made a noncommittal expression. “Why not indeed,” she answered, and Uccello had to wonder at his reputation if it was so hard for her to believe he might simply do something nice for another human being. Presumably, that’s what the Church was all about, after all.

Wednesday, Montreux arrived with his trunk on the back of a cart laden with all sorts of spring flowers. The driver seemed a little put out, presumably having gone out of his way to transport Montreux and his belongings all the way to the bend of the Tiber. The driver’s donkey, however, appeared unconcerned, accepting the top of a carrot from Montreux without complaint. Montreux patted her flank before trotting around to the back of the cart and heaving his trunk off of it with a thud.

“Hello, sir,” Montreux greeted breathlessly, hauling his trunk behind him one heavy lurch at a time. Uccello thought of his floors and felt his face tighten.

He paid the surly flower merchant a few coins to lift the other side of the trunk and help Montreux carry it it into the spare room. Once they set it down, the flower merchant took an appraising look around.

“What’d you do to get a set-up like this?” he asked suspiciously.

“I told you, I’m going to be working for the Cardinal.”

“I wasn’t listening. You mean keeping his house? Wouldn’t that be more suited to a lady like your sister?”

From the sitting room, Uccello frowned. He assumed the flower merchant meant Marguerite, his sweetheart. Perhaps it was a noble gesture, angling for a better position for his paramour, but Uccello still didn’t like the way it sounded.

“Well, the position wasn’t offered to my sister,” Montreux sniffed. “I thank you for your help. Now, you’ll know where to forward wedding invitations when you propose to Marguerite.”

Uccello could hear the tightness in the flower merchant’s voice when he gave an evasive answer and turned to leave. Uccello showed him out without comment, and let the door close behind him.

“I’ll leave you to get settled,” he said, passing by Montreux’s doorway on his way to the kitchen.

“Oh, you’ve moved that chest out of here. And that drawing,” Montreux noted. Uccello paused in the process of breaking off a little bit of tea from the brick in which it came, thinking distantly that he’d have to show Montreux how to prepare the exotic beverage.

“Yes, I had the men from the furniture market move it upstairs, to make room for your armoire,” he replied, thoughts of the drawing bringing back memories of his embarrassing dream. He quashed them, and put a kettle on the hearth. Doing so made him realize Reni’s apartment lacked any sort of kitchen, and made him wonder what the artist did for food. He’d noticed before that Reni did not appear malnourished. In fact, he seemed fairly well-built. Perhaps whatever exercise he did with his ridiculous /sword/ kept him in such good health. Uccello pressed his lips together and concentrated on stoking the fire and then holding the tea in a metal basket just out of reach of the flames to roast it. He’d crush it a little with a mortar and pestle after it had been cleansed by fire.

Montreux poked his head into the kitchen, holding the pitcher from his new wash stand.

“Basin’s just there,” Uccello said, gesturing, but not looking away from his roasting basket.

“What’s that?” Montreux asked, “Anything I can help with?”

“Tea. A drink from China. I took ill a year or so ago and a doctor prescribed it for its restorative qualities. It’s frightfully expensive but I’m very fond of the taste and energizing effects. Apparently, they drink it with a meal, in the Orient, like we would with wine, or like northerners drink beer.”

“And it comes from a brick?” Montreux sounded amazed, as though he was imagining the bricks sprouting up from the ground, or perhaps hanging from trees like fruits. Uccello stifled a laugh, thinking of the bizarre illustrations of unusual things growing from trees, from the margins of medieval texts.

“They press it into a mold, for travel. See, I cut off a little piece, then put it in this basket and hold it above the flames to clean it, then I put it in a mortar and grind it, not to a powder, but just enough that the lump breaks up and it can form sort of a flat layer in the bottom of the bowl.” He shook the slightly heated lump out into the mortar, and gave it a quick grind, showing Montreux how it should be done. “Then I put the basket over a vessel, shake the tea out into the basket...” he demonstrated, then used a hook to move the kettle from the hearth to the counter. “And then I pour some hot water over it. The apothecary tells me that over in China they do something complicated with a whisk, but he also says that tea is hot and moist and therefore good for treating melancholic disorders, but the doctor said it was actually hot and /dry/, due to the roasting, and thereby a treatment for phlegmatic disorders. Unless of course you add sugar, then that changes the humor of the drink completely.” Uccello didn’t know why he was explaining all of this, but Montreux nodded along, prompting Uccello to keep speaking. “You have to be sure not to allow it to burn, when you’re roasting it, or it’ll ruin the flavor. You just pour the water over it like this, and then let it sit a minute or two, so the color of the water changes, then you can take the basket out.” He let it steep, and Montreux moved the kettle back to the hearth. “It’s an effort, but supposedly it’s good for my health.”

“Do you take it with every meal?” Evidently, Montreux was taking mental notes on his duties in the house.

“Generally, just in the morning. With a light meal, except during Lent. Here, I’ll show you where I keep everything. Do you know where the market is? And the bakery?”

“I was a messenger until very recently,” Montreux reminded him. “I know this city fairly well.”

Montreux was a fast learner, and answered the door graciously when a man in livery came to call the following evening. Hearing the knocking, Uccello had allowed himself to hope that it was Reni’s notice that he’d finished the full-size cartoon, but instead Montreux came into the kitchen where he sat reading by candlelight Rodriguez’s notes regarding that day’s congresso, and informed him that Cardinal Bishop Scipione Sforza had come to call.

Uccello stood. Sfrorza rarely met him anywhere outside his own palazzo, unless they happened to run into one another in the course of their duties within the Church. He picked up his candle and moved quickly into the sitting room, then motioned for Montreux to pour two glasses of wine. Montreux did so and had them next to the candle on the small table between the two chairs just as Sforza walked in. Silently, Montreux ducked into his room and closed the door, divining from the sour look on the Cardinal Bishop’s face that he ought to make himself scarce. Uccello offered Sforza a chair and sat at the other, allowing the older man a moment to get comfortable with his wine before saying anything. Sforza’s servant had disappeared, presumably to go wait in the koci-wagon outside.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I came all the way here,” Sforza said. “I came by four days ago, but you must have still been at mass, and I haven’t heard from you in the intervening days. I see you’ve finally hired some help?” His watery eyes found Montreux’s door, and Uccello nodded, pretending not to have felt the implication that Uccello should have sought Sforza out, upon learning of his visit.

“Yes, just this week. It’s been very busy, getting him acquainted with the run of the house, but I expect things will go much smoother from here.”

“One hopes,” Sforza replied. “You must have heard, there are some persistent rumors about His Holiness, and who should replace him when the Almighty calls him to heaven.”

“Ah,” Uccello answered gracefully, “yes, but only rumors. Obviously, the general public doesn’t vote on these matters, so if there’s illegal betting going on, it still doesn’t have any effect on the results of the conclave... that is, if we’re called to such a thing in the near future.”

Sforza’s expression darkened. “People talk, Cardinal Deacon. They aren’t all so isolated as you. They live among their families, some of whom are very influential. I shouldn’t like to think there are those who would vote for Peretti, after I’ve shown them every kindness.”

Uccello furrowed his brows, feeling the kick of shame in his chest. Sforza /had/ done many favors for him, raised him up out of the gutter, put his own neck on the line to have Uccello created a Cardinal. He might also be right about the isolation. How much of it was self-imposed? Could Uccello have a family, even an influential one, if he paid more attention to Sforza’s guidance? “You know you have my vote, your most reverend eminence,” he assured the Cardinal Bishop. Sforza had made him aware of Reni, with whom Uccello had trusted his legacy. Had Uccello lost sight of what was important?

“And? What of your fellows in the Congregation for the Annona?” Sforza snapped. Uccello was well acquainted with the man’s temper, though Sforza did not show it publicly.

“They’re aware of my affiliation, surely. They know you’ve... helped me. I haven’t campaigned in your favor, for fear it would hurt your chances. I don’t think they’d vote for Peretti... he’s so rude, and pompous. I doubt any of them would want to serve under him as Pope.” Sforza knew Uccello wasn’t the most popular man in the Cardinalate. He’d see the danger of asking Uccello to drum up support.

“Hmm,” Sforza grumbled, sipping his wine.

“I wish I could tell you with certainty for whom they’d vote. Granted, Thiebaud is French, and Rodriguez is Spanish. There may be other candidates the kings of their respective nations would endorse. That would be a muddle.” He hid behind his glass, racking his mind for other possibilities.

“Why, have they said anything?” Sforza asked intently. Clearly he was rattled. Uccello did not envy him; having the Holy See dangled in front of him like that must be exhausting.

“No, nothing,” Uccello answered honestly. Uccello had to wonder what had inspired Sforza to come all the way to his door, knowing already how he would vote. Was it really to check up on how much support he had in Uccello’s Congregation within the Curia, however small it may be, or was it /because/ he was so rattled, and he’d known Uccello for decades, knew he could count on his support if nothing else? “What about in your former department, the Congregation for the Inquisition? I’m sure you have friends there, perhaps more influential than those on Peretti’s side.”

“Largely, they’ve avoided showing their hands. It does make me wonder, what all will come to light at the eventual conclave. Why would they hide it from me, unless they meant to vote against me? Why else, except that they do not wish to color our interactions until then?” Sforza stared into the depths of his glass. “After everything I’ve done over the years. Peretti doesn’t have the experience that I do. He doesn’t have the conviction. Do you think his brother, the doctor, might pay people off to vote in favor of his family name?”

“I don’t think so.” Neither of them had drunk much of their wine. “I’ve met him, and his wife, and children. They run an apothecary adjoined to his practice, and seem very focused on that. They’ve shown me a respect that Cardinal Peretti never has, and don’t seem like particularly underhanded people.” It was at that very shop he purchased his bricks of tea. After many months of giving them his custom, he thought he had a fairly good read of Doctor Peretti and his side of the family.

“Then who would support him?!” Sforza spat, gesturing angrily with his free hand.

“Perhaps no one,” Uccello soothed. “It might all be hearsay. He attends a very populous church. It’s possible his name comes up among the book keepers by sheer familiarity alone.” Uccello didn’t fully believe that, but it didn’t really matter. The public would not know which Cardinal had voted for whom, in the end. Their opinions and guesses were only the prerogative of gamblers, and nothing more.

Sforza looked like he was going to say something else, his grimace showing his stained teeth. But then, he took a few fortifying gulps of wine instead. They drank in silence until they finished their glasses, and then, Sforza stood, slowly.

“I know you can’t force anyone’s hand,” he said, setting his glass down with a definitive /clink/, “but if you do happen to hear something, I’d be interested to know.”

Uccello nodded, and walked Sforza out to where his koci-wagon stood, his driver and footman waiting for him. Standing at his open doorway, Uccello watched the footman help Sforza up into the cab, and then, silently observed the way the driver snapped the reins to urge the horse into a brisk trot. Over the cobblestones, the wagon rattled loudly, the horse’s hooves striking the street in a steady rhythm, until it turned the corner at the end of Uccello’s row, and was gone.

Montreux had nipped out of his room to gather up the glasses, and Uccello met him en route to the kitchen.

“I assume you heard most of that conversation. I probably needn’t tell you, but I shall anyway: you absolutely must not pass on anything you learn that has to do with the running of the Church, or the personal lives of the clergy. You would not wish to be labeled a blasphemer or a heretic.” He met Montreux’s eyes, to be sure he understood, and waited for Montreux to nod.

“The punishment for that is death, isn’t it?” Montreux asked, the two glass vessels clicking together in his hands.

“In extreme cases, yes. Or banishment.” Offhandedly he remembered something Sforza had told him, when he first recommended Reni’s services. Reni’s uncle had been branded a blasphemer, and had been exiled to the North for it, beyond the borders of the Papal States. Reni, it seemed, had refused his family, in order to remain in Rome.

Montreux winced. “I wouldn’t, sir. This is a good job. I don’t mean to throw it away.”

It was Uccello’s turn to nod, and then, to take his leave, climbing the narrow staircase to the master bedroom on the second floor. Another long day. But, he thought, as he readied himself for sleep, in the morning, Montreux would prepare his morning tea, so he could concentrate on other things. It would be Laetare Sunday, the midpoint of Lent, this week. And, he could expect the full-size cartoon from Reni any day now. These were his thoughts as sleep overtook him, and his first upon waking the following day.


	6. The Boy Peeling Fruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having finished the full-sized cartoon, Reni pays Uccello a visit at home.

Laetare Sunday, Montreux went to visit his mother, as was tradition. Having already visited his own mother’s grave several weeks earlier, Uccello abstained from doing so, but labored over a letter to send to Mama Solana. She could read and write as well, and Uccello was thankful for that, though she rarely sent him letters. Even if she insisted each of her days in the small village was very much the same as the ones before it, he would have appreciated some news from the place where he spent his earliest years. Marriages, births, and deaths, even— just the barest bit of information. It has been weeks since his visit, and he didn’t know when next he’d be able to borrow Sforza’s koci-wagon to see her again. Often, months passed between his visits, and in that time he’d have no idea what went on in that little fishing village on the coast. By contrast, he couldn’t imagine Montreux’s mother could have much to update your youngest child on, as he’d only left home earlier that week. 

When Uccello left home to walk the streets and see the various celebrations allowed on this day, he noticed flower petals collecting in the gutters and thought of the bad-mannered flower merchant of whom one of Montreux’s sisters was so enamored, but when he came to the facade of Chiesa di Sant’Agostino just a little ways away from his own front door, he realized that the petals were coming from a rather large wedding party, spilling out of the church. The bride wore red, and her dress was perhaps a little unfashionable... maybe a family heirloom. The groom wore black and brown, almost as if to blend into the gathered crowd and thereby emphasize the beauty and importance of his new wife. Uccello had always thought it was odd, that there were couples who chose to be married on Laetare Sunday: the only day in the whole of Lent where weddings would be allowed to be held. He wondered why they couldn’t wait the further four weeks until after Easter. Didn’t the somber remainder of Lent following the ceremony somewhat put a damper on the day? But then, Uccello had never been invited to a wedding. As he watched the bride and groom walk arm and arm down the road in the direction of the river, followed by the masses of their combined families, he thought of what Sforza had said, that he was ‘isolated’. Obviously, he would never be married; he’d pledged his life to the Church. But, as the bride laughed loudly and the groom petted her small hand in his, Uccello did have to wonder what it might be like to even be part of the crowd, following behind a happy couple, their bliss rolling over everyone behind them like ripples of a wake after a boat. 

A slight breeze stirred the petals in the road, and they caught in the valleys between the worn cobblestones. The spring was returning, after weeks of blistering heat, and Uccello thanked the almighty. 

In the green spaces of the city, as Uccello made his way to the stable, flowers bloomed. Wild flowers and weeds alike, sprouting up everywhere, even in the cracks between bricks, as though they knew it was a day of celebration. /Laetare/, the imperative, commanding all of Christendom: /rejoice/, and be thankful. Even Finale seemed to walk with her head higher, now the heat wasn’t beating her down. They seemed to make the trip to the Basilica in record time, and Uccello tied Finale near a trough before heading inside. 

Mass was joyful. The bishop had elected to wear rose colored vestments, rather than his typical amaranth ones. This indulgence was only allowed on Laetare Sunday, as well, and on specific feast days, and as a result, the costume was crisp and new. Uccello made time to speak to him after the service, and attempted to clear the shadow of doubt he saw clouding the bishop’s face at his approach. 

“Reverend Brother,” Uccello greeted, determined to work on this problem of isolation. It was the only thing remaining for him to do, he reminded himself, if he wanted to mend his reputation within the clergy. And, someday, this man, the bishop of a major Basilica, might be a cardinal, too. “Good news,” he said, doing his best to be congenial, though it did not come naturally to him. “The artist I’ve commissioned to decorate the central wall of one of your new chapels should be delivering his full-size cartoon within the week. Of course, he insists that once work has begun on the fresco, that the chapel be closed to the public so he’s not disturbed. But, that does mean the finished product will be all the more dramatic when it’s revealed.” 

Bishop Rossini nodded after a hesitant moment, his face sallow with high spots of color, and Uccello fought to maintain his smile. He suspected the man was frightened that Uccello knew about his mistress (which he did) and that he’d be stripped of his mitre for breaking his vow of chastity (which Uccello had specifically prevented). Of course, Rossini didn’t know for sure whether Uccello knew or not; he only knew what Uccello had advised the mistress to tell him, which was that he /might/ know, and to be more discreet. He mentioned to her that he didn’t want to see Rossini punished, mostly because he was a good man, but also because his Basilica had just finished building two new chapels, and Uccello had hoped to convince the good bishop to allow him to purchase a commission for the commanding wall in one of them. He allowed her to extrapolate from that, and the letter from the bishop offering him the space arrived not a week later. The whole charade wasn’t as tidy as Uccello would like, but it got the job done. He believed the two still saw one another. He hoped they were happy. 

“I do hope you like it,” Uccello went on. “The artist is even more dramatic than his work, but he is very skilled. There’s a certain...” He thought about how to describe Reni’s work. “There’s an intensity, coupled with a very real sincerity to his work. And he knows the scripture incredibly well. I think you’ll like it. I won’t ruin the surprise by telling you the subject, though.” 

“Oh,” Rossini faltered. “I suppose, that’s the benefit of ceding my episcopal oversight to you. That it will be a surprise.” 

“Exactly,” Uccello agreed, hoping Rossini wasn’t generally this obvious when he had something to hide. “It’s very exciting. I can’t wait to see it, fully realized and illuminated by morning sun through the windows. I’m sure it will be magnificent.” He smiled, gave the bishop a small nod. “Once he gets started, you’ll probably see more of me, as I drop by to check on his progress. I hope you don’t get tired of my face,” he joked. Damn it, he was trying. 

“Not at all, your Eminence!” Rossini insisted. “It’s an honor to have you.” 

Uccello smiled, and bade the bishop enjoy the rest of his Laetare Sunday. The day was still full, and Uccello thought about returning home for a quick meal. There was still soup in the pot in the hearth from the previous night— Montreux had made too much and then joked that at least Uccello wouldn’t need to make anything else while his housekeeper was away with his family. Uccello turned back toward the river, and, on a whim, led Finale on a less direct route. They meandered for some time, until they ended up at the Campo Vaccino, where what remained of the great columns of the ancient Roman Forum rose up out of the field, and melted into the trees overtaking them. There was a fair amount of livestock already grazing there, watched by bored youths who clustered in the shade of ruined arches. Uccello dismounted near what might have once been a temple, and removed Finale’s harnesses there, so she could relax in the shade of the creeping vines which had overtaken one broken wall almost completely, and had started to extend their reach across hanging branches and on to new territory. In the dappled sunlight, Finale picked at the weeds growing around the base of a once-mighty obelisk (now broken and scattered) and chewed yellow dandelions sedately. Her ears flickered gracefully at the calls of the cow-herds, laughing to one another in the afternoon, and her deep brown eyes watched the world carefully. As she cautiously made her way around the ruins, seeking out tender greens, her lustrous black coat shone, and her tail swished lazily. Uccello sat on the barrel of a fallen column, plucking up long grasses and knotting them together without any true purpose. He hoped Giuseppe wouldn’t be cross if he returned Finale to the stable with burrs in her mane. He was always so careful to keep it neatly trimmed and well brushed. He’d noted that she was one of the finest horses in his care, as jennets were a special breed, and Uccello didn’t want the man to think he was mistreating her. Uccello imagined Reni would look good astride her back, in his all-black traveling outfit with matching hat. They’d look quite the pair. Finale was a particularly tall horse, since Uccello himself was a rather tall man, but Reni was even taller. His stomping gait was at odds with her smooth stride, but they both had shiny black hair and large, dark eyes. They’d match rather well, Uccello thought, going about the streets looking like an omen of ill portent. He frowned at the weeds in his hands. What a silly thing to think, he chastised himself. Finale at least knew how to behave, unlike some people. 

The day wore on, and as the sun dipped lower and began to reflect off of the Tiber, transforming it into a bright golden ribbon, Uccello went to harness his horse again, and return her to her stable. Giuseppe wasn’t there when he arrived— probably at evening mass— and so Uccello found a comb and worked the seeds and twigs out of Finale’s mane and tail, himself. He stowed her saddle and harnesses, and led her to her stall, where someone had left fresh hay for her. A good brushing of her coat could wait until the grooms returned in the morning.

“Do you know, you’re a very spoiled horse,” he said, petting down her nose. She didn’t give any answer, obviously, just stretched her neck over her gate to bump against his shoulder, begging for treats as if she hadn’t spent most of the day eating. “Look, you’ve got more food, right there,” he said, as if she could understand him. Sforza was right, he ought to make more friends.

Montreux wasn’t back yet when he returned home, and so Uccello stoked the fire beneath the heavy pot, alone. He ladled out a portion of the soup, and lit some candles, and sat at his kitchen table with his bowl and a few slices of bread, as he had done for years. How odd, that only three days after having hired someone to keep his house, it felt too large and empty with no one there. He dipped hard crusted bread into the broth, which was creamy with mashed turnip, and hearty with lentils. 

“Lentils, er, for Lent,” Montreux had said. “It’s a joke my mother tells.” 

Mama Solana had told him that his own mother had been very, very funny, but insisted he was too young for any of her jokes. As an adult, he’d never asked her to repeat them. They were probably fairly coarse. 

He wiped up his crumbs and set about washing his dish, wondering if he should keep the fire low in case Montreux wanted to eat when he turned up. /Turnips when he turns up,/ he thought, suppressing a smile. That would probably be the kind of joke Montreux’s mother would like. He was just setting his bowl to dry when Montreux came in, using his new key. It stuck in the lock a little, and Uccello heard him stumble a bit, trying to get it free. 

“Ah, so you’ve turned up,” Uccello said, when Montreux passed the kitchen. “Turnip?” He wasn’t sure the delivery was right because Montreux blinked at him a moment before comprehension dawned on him. 

“Ohh, right! The soup. No thanks, I already ate. Big news, sir!” 

Uccello shoveled some ash over the hot coals, dousing them. He wasn’t any good at telling jokes. Perhaps it was because he’d never learned, from his mother or anyone else. 

“What’s that?” Uccello asked. He brushed ash off the hem of his cassock— he hadn’t even thought to change out of it yet. 

“Mario finally proposed to Marguerite! They’re to be married this summer!” Montreux stepped into the kitchen, ruddy-cheeked and beaming. His usually neat hair was in disarray, and he was missing his hat. There had probably been a fairly large celebration in the Montreux house. 

Uccello supposed he’d been wrong about there not being any news to report. 

“Well then,” Uccello said. “I suppose she’ll be moving out soon, too. Helping him with his flower business, whatever that entails.” 

Montreux nodded enthusiastically, wiping his palms on his breeches. “Probably at the end of this month, before Easter.”

“My goodness, that’s soon.” Uccello picked up his candle and moved into the next room. Montreux followed the light. “It seems as though you were the cork among your siblings. Once you popped out of the house, everyone else started spilling out after you. Your oldest sister, the nun, and now Miss Marguerite.”

“Maybe so,” Montreux mused. He paused at the door to his own bedroom. “Will you be needing anything else tonight, sir?” 

“No, there’s nothing,” Uccello replied. He carried the candle up the stairs, set it beside his bed. For some reason, he sat for a moment, watching the candle drip into its holder, thinking. So, the day had begun and ended with /marriage/. He had no idea who the couple coming out of the church that morning were, but he felt like an interloper on their celebration, an uninvited guest. He’d met Mario, the flower seller, only briefly, and Uccello could admit to himself that the man hadn’t made a particularly favorable impression on him. What would he be like on his wedding day? Would he be as surly and jealous as he’d been in Uccello’s home, or would he be transformed by love and match the awed adoration of the morning’s unknown bridegroom, the loose sleeves of his drab-colored tunic like the wings of a moth, drawn to the crimson brilliance of his new wife’s flame? He’d never met Marguerite, nor asked Montreux if she was a superlative beauty. He only knew that Paulette, the eldest, was not much to look at— but now she, too, was bride to Christ. He blew out the candle and lay in the dark, trying to imagine a different life than the one he had. 

If he was no holy man, if he was still a poor peasant living in that fishing village so far away, would he have married a local girl? He couldn’t think of any who had taken his fancy, but his memories of that time were hazy. The worst memories stood out clearest. He tried to remember though, had he ever had a boyhood fondness for any pretty girl his age? He couldn’t even remember the faces of the children in town. He’d seen them as adults, when he returned there for the first time, more than ten years after he left, and recognized practically no one at first. He was so strange looking though, they’d recognized /him/ immediately. He rarely met other people with his coloration— especially his hair color. He could probably count on one hand the number he’d met, hailing from the north of France or else Britain. He understood England had been ruled by a red-haired queen until fairly recently, but of course, she was a Protestant, and not recognized by the Church, and anyway he doubted he could claim any blood-ties to her. He didn’t know whether his father had come from one of those places. He had an Italian surname, but it wasn’t a common one. Perhaps it was a nickname, given to his father because of some attribute of his that made him in some way bird-like. Armando Uccello, who had been named for him, would never know. 

He awoke in the morning with the vague suspicion he’d had another strange dream, but it didn’t remain in his head for very long. Montreux was already bent over the hearth, carefully roasting the tea leaves in their basket, when Uccello came downstairs. There was ash on the knees of his trousers. It seemed he’d been struggling with the hearth. Ordinarily, he’d have a few slices of bread in the morning, but the Lenten fast forbade a morning repast, so he’d have to subsist on the tea alone. He sat, and observed Montreux working the leaves with the mortar and pestle. 

“Do you have any interest in sampling the drink?” he asked. For a man who had spent as much time out of doors as Montreux presumably had, he did have something of a sallow complexion. Uccello had assumed this was due to overworking himself with his sisters’ chores, but perhaps it was instead a weak constitution. If Montreux grew ill, then Uccello would be back to where he’d been, before he hired someone to keep his house. The tea drink could help.

Montreux heaved the kettle from the hearth to the counter, and wiped his hands on his shirt. 

“I don’t know sir, didn’t you say it was expensive?” He shifted the ground leaves into the basket again, and balanced it over a vessel. 

“Here,” Uccello said, finding a smaller cup. “Just try a little.” 

Montreux shifted the basket, poured some of the water into the new cup. Uccello took over fixing his own tea while Montreux stood awkwardly to the side, blowing on the hot liquid. He was already back at the table again, enjoying his larger mug of the tea, when Montreux finally braved a sip. 

“Grchk!” Montreux choked, making a face. “It’s so bitter!” 

Uccello stifled a laugh. Montreux really seemed to be struggling. Well, perhaps it was an acquired taste. Montreux forced the rest of his tea down in one gulp, and grimaced. 

“I suppose you did say it was medicine,” he said, rinsing his cup. “Still, I don’t know how you drink it every day.” 

If Uccello hoped to defend his habits, he was interrupted by a knock on the door. 

“What on earth could that be?” Uccello grumbled. Not Sforza again, surely. Montreux was at the door before Uccello had even tucked his chair back in under the table, and was talking animatedly with the courier, who, it seemed, was an acquaintance of his. 

“No, it’s a new job,” he was saying, as Uccello came into the next room. The other messenger must have made a face or gesture, because Uccello didn’t hear any question, though Montreux replied, “I know, but don’t go spreading it around. I don’t need you or any of the other fellows trying to get my job from under me.” He sounded jovial though, so this must have been a joke. “Anyway, good to see you, Cecco. Tell your family hello. Your father still has our good hammer, don’t forget.” Again, no verbal response, but as Uccello drew close he saw a boy with an uneven jaw, a bit younger than Montreux, perhaps fifteen or sixteen. He made a flippant gesture at Montreux before turning back to the street. Montreux closed the door, and held out a scrap of paper. Uccello knew immediately from the texture that it was from Reni. His heart leapt into his throat. 

“Poor Cecco,” Montreux was saying, oblivious to the careful way Uccello took the paper, wondering if this was the notice that the cartoon was done. “He was kicked in the face by a donkey as a child, and now he doesn’t speak. It broke his jaw, you see. He never even got his second teeth on that side. I suppose he /could/ talk, but I bet he doesn’t want people making fun of him. He gets by with hand gestures and expressions alright.” 

Uccello nodded, not really listening, and broke the wax seal on the note with his thumbnail. Again, in Reni’s curiously beautiful handwriting, there was a short note: “It is ready.” Uccello swallowed. Took a deep breath. 

“Do you think you could catch up with that boy, Cecco, if you hurry?” he asked Montreux, already striding into the kitchen and rummaging for his inkwell and quill. “I’ll just write a quick response.” 

‘Good. Bring it today.’ was all he wrote, under Reni’s line, before folding the scrap over again. He didn’t bother trying to make his handwriting nice. He also didn’t trouble himself with sealing it; it would take too long to peel off Reni’s wax, prepare his own, so on, so forth. Only as he was handing the note to Montreux did he notice there was a sketch on the back of the note. It had been smudged a bit by the messenger, but it was obviously one of Reni’s drawings of Uccello, himself. He hesitated a moment, but then, gave the paper to Montreux. 

“I need this to get back to Reni as soon as possible. See if you can’t catch that messenger on his way back that direction.” 

“I’ll try,” Montreux pledged, scurrying out the door. 

Uccello drifted back into the kitchen to finish his tea. Finally, he’d see the drawing full size. It felt like he was close to something, because with the cartoon done, Reni could easily begin work on the painting. Uccello didn’t know how long the actual painting of the fresco would take, but he’d feel better once there were marks on the chapel wall. It would feel more real, then. It would feel more solid, substantial— and, he hoped, so would his footing with regards to his position within the Church. 

It took quite a while for Montreux to return, but he said he was finally able to catch up to Cecco and that he’d delivered the return note and a few coins. Uccello realized he’d been in such a rush he hadn’t even thought of that, and apologized, worried that Montreux had paid out of his own pocket. Montreux assured him he’d used money Uccello had given him for the week’s shopping, and then shortly thereafter, left the house again in the direction of the market. 

Alone again, Uccello set to pacing. He didn’t know when Reni would arrive, but wanted to be ready when he did. Perhaps he should decant some wine? Though, he’d be waiting quite a while if Reni took his sole daily meal at mid day instead of in the evening. Why did it have to be Lent when he was trying to get things done? He considered his walls. Yes. It would have to be the wall to the right, where the door to the kitchen was. It got the best light. That’s where he’d have Reni tack up the pieces of the cartoon. Good heavens, would Reni need a ladder? He couldn’t imagine the man would carry one across the city, and Uccello didn’t have one tall enough to reach the upper areas of the wall. With Montreux out at the market, doing the meager weekly shop necessary to make one meal a day, Uccello couldn’t leave to find a ladder he could borrow. What if Reni turned up while he was out? He ought to put on his cassock instead of the non-clerical attire he wore at home. He was more /respectable/ dressed in his scarlet robes and hat. But, what if Reni should arrive while he was dressing? He thought he had some time but he’d be quick about it, regardless. 

Dressed and ready, he was still alone in the house, with no indication of how long it would be. So. He paced some more. 

It was afternoon when the next knocks came at the door. They were so loud, Uccello nearly jumped out of his skin, and when he answered the door, he saw Reni, flushed from the long walk, a cylinder-shaped woven basket under one arm and a short ladder under the other. Well. That took care of that. Uccello assumed Reni had kicked his door, both hands full, and frowned at the scuffs on the painted wood. Reni ignored this, barging in as soon as Uccello was out of the way and gratefully setting the ladder and basket against the wall. He whipped his hat off to judge the height of the wall.

“I’ll have to build a scaffold to do the fresco,” Reni said, apropos of nothing. “For today, this ladder will be tall enough.” He placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the same wall Uccello had thought would be best for this preview. “How do you live in here, with all these bare walls?” he asked. 

Uccello’s frown deepened. “You know I hadn’t commissioned anyone before,” he defended. 

“Still, there are plenty of artists flogging their wares in the city’s plazas. A genre painting or two wouldn’t set you back too much. Just to give some life to this room. Nice rug, though.” 

“Thank you,” Uccello grit out. “Can I get you something to drink?” 

“Anything is fine. I’ll have to use tacks, might chip your wall a bit. I can come back and plaster over that later, if you need. For another 300 scudi I can even do a fresco over it.” He quirked an eyebrow at Uccello, and only then did the cardinal realize it was a joke. 

“Don’t try to squeeze me,” Uccello replied, disappearing into the kitchen for some wine. He hadn’t gotten around to decanting it, in the end, and hoped Reni didn’t mind. When he came back to the main room, Reni was already up on the ladder. He’d pulled several large sheets of paper from the basket, and they were curling up on him, from having been rolled for travel. Uccello set the bottle and glasses on the sideboard and reached up to help Reni hold the paper flat against the wall. 

“Thanks,” Reni said easily. “Hold this?” He passed Uccello a sack of tacks from his pocket. He had a few more in his mouth, and they slurred his speech somewhat. Looking up, watching Reni hammer the tacks into the wall, Uccello noticed that Reni’s mustache and small beard had grown in, perhaps as much as they were ever going to. The mustache was square-edged with a sort of downward turn. It emphasized the seemingly perpetual pout of the man’s lips. It wasn’t really a fashionable shape, and Uccello had predicted it wouldn’t be, but it fit him. Ordinarily, Uccello thought small beards constrained only to the point of the chin looked silly, too /affected/, but on Reni’s long, sloping jaw, it seemed appropriate. He handed up another tack when Reni reached down, and stepped aside when Reni needed to move the ladder. Slowly, the sheets were affixed to the wall, until at last, the two of them could stand back and observe the drawing full-size. Once he’d visually confirmed that the pieces were aligned, Reni moved away toward the sideboard to pour himself some wine. 

“It’s a shame you don’t have any ice. That woman who owns the tavern where we met before, she’s the only person I know who serves wine that way, here in Rome.” 

Uccello looked away from the drawing for a moment. “What? Oh, yes, it’s refreshing that way. She’s from Florence, you know. Apparently that’s the common way to serve it, there.”

“She’s told me the same,” Reni said. “Have you ever been to Florence?” 

“I have not,” Uccello replied. He’d spent most of his adult life orbiting St. Peter’s Basilica, in fact. 

“There’s some fantastic art there. A rather famous /David/, in fact, as a young hero.”

“He seems to be a favored subject of yours,” Uccello commented. 

“He was a favored subject of the Republic of Florence, a hundred years ago. Or so I’ve been told. They felt he represented resistance to a seemingly insurmountable power. The statue is positioned to face Rome, as it happens.” He watched Uccello as he said this, clearly expecting it would get a reaction. 

“Well, that didn’t work out particularly well for them in the end, did it?” As far as he knew, when a Medici had been elected Pope several decades before Uccello was born, the Republic of Florence ceased to be. 

“No, I suppose not. They all fall to Rome in the end, don’t they?” Reni took one of the chairs on the rug, settling into it with his wine. 

“‘They’?” Uccello asked, “Who is ‘they’, in this context?”

“Well, I thought you knew I was born in Venice. Since you knew about my /uncle/.” His face twisted with that last word. 

“I didn’t know that,” Uccello insisted. It would explain his proud ways. 

“Oh, no?” Reni took a sip of his wine, licked his lips. “Well, it’s true. I was born in Venice, and schooled there, until it came time for me to choose a vocation. Well, perhaps I should say, until such time as a vocation was chosen for me.” His lips held a sardonic lilt and he swirled his wine in his cup, encouraging it to open up. 

“You didn’t choose the life of a painter? Were your talents evident so early?” Uccello wondered if Reni would crow under the praise, but the man only shrugged his broad shoulders under his loose black chemise. 

“They were, but also I used to have quite a temper. My parents thought an apprenticeship would help to direct my passionate nature into something constructive. You can see, it was enormously effective.”

Uccello couldn’t stop the incredulous look he cast the other man, and was caught at it, Reni’s smirk barely hidden by the lip of his cup. So, Reni /did/ know how he was. 

“One wonders what you were like as a child,” Uccello replied archly, crossing his arms over himself. “Running about unchecked, with the excesses of the Republic of Venice all around you.”

“Actually there were sumptuary laws, to prevent people from displaying their excesses too much. Some old Doge must’ve thought it was necessary not to look too arrogant, considering the Venetian merchants more or less control the Mediterranean.” He arched his thick brows, drank deeply, held the cup aside with his lips stained a darker red. 

Uccello grit his teeth, imagined the vast differences between Reni’s upbringing and his own. As a child, Uccello would never have imagined that there were places where people were so wealthy, someone had to pass a law preventing them from showing off too much. 

“So then,” Uccello tried, curious despite himself about the circumstances that made this man before him, “you miss it?”

“Not in the slightest,” Reni answered immediately. Uccello blinked at him, stunned. “Why, do you miss the place you were born? Or, are you a native Roman?” 

Uccello responded without thinking of the consequences. 

“I was born in a very small fishing village on the western coast. I don’t visit as often as I should.” 

“Ah, your relations are constantly haranguing you about that as mine are?” 

Uccello wondered about Reni’s family. Did he have any brothers or sisters? He was unlikely to have any cousins through his blasphemous uncle, if the man was off living as a monk somewhere. 

“Quite the opposite,” Uccello clarified. “My...” How should he describe Mama Solana? “—family never writes.”

“Lucky you. I’ve stopped opening my mail because someone is always writing me to nag.” Reni slumped in his chair, giving Uccello a wry look. 

“I had noticed that. Your stack of unopened letters is beginning to rival the Aurelian wall.” 

Uccello drifted over to the sideboard to pour himself a drink as well, as Reni huffed a laugh. 

“Alike in height, as well as in general disregard and disrepair,” Reni agreed. He looked into his cup. He’d probably need a refill soon. “A village by the sea,” Reni murmured. “I imagine that was picturesque. Healthful, even, by comparison to those stinking canals.” 

“It does have some lovely views,” Uccello remarked, “Though the church there is not so grand as you might be used to. Not the sort of place to display work of your caliber.” He finally took the seat next to Reni. It felt odd to turn his back on the cartoon. They hadn’t discussed it at all since Reni arrived, but if the man had nowhere else to be, Uccello would indulge him with conversation at least. And wine.

“Good of you to praise my talents,” Reni goaded, and Uccello sniffed, turning his face away from the artist. 

“I’m paying three hundred scudi for those talents,” Uccello reminded him. “They had /better/ be worth it.”

“Yes well,” Reni returned, “the good people of your native village could /make/ their church an appropriate venue for my work, purely by paying me that same sum.” He seemed so at ease, lounging in one of Uccello’s good chairs, his long legs crossed at the ankle. He almost looked as if he was going to kick off his boots and ask for a foot rub after his long walk. Uccello forced down a smirk.

“You think we had minted coins so far from the Holy See?” he laughed. Truly, Reni was a man with no concept of life in the rural areas of the Papal States. “Would you accept, perhaps, four good milking cows?”

“Of course. I’d store them on my roof,” Reni answered, his tone almost totally serious. 

“And milk them through that hole you cut in the ceiling,” Uccello added. 

“I’ll have to patch that if ever I should move, or my landlady will sue,” Reni admitted, a rare moment of chagrin flickering across his face. 

“I shouldn’t like to challenge a man who keeps a sword at his bedside, even in court,” Uccello joked. This gave Reni pause for some reason, and he sat up as if to say something important, before sitting back again. He drained his cup. 

“My sword is only a replacement for the one I should have gotten,” he said glumly. 

Uccello didn’t know what he meant, and it must have shown because Reni gave him a long look and sighed, standing to refill his drink. With his back to Uccello, he said, “My grandfather was... well, like you, he came from humble beginnings.” Uccello wasn’t sure if that was a slight or not, but Reni didn’t give him time to object. “But, like you, he rose to prominence in the Church. It was said he could perform miracles.” Reni turned, stared at the cartoon as if seeing through it, slowly swirling his wine. “He could heal the sick by laying his hands on their brow. He could uncover hidden things, was possessed of mysterious knowledge, which he said was delivered to him by a speaking light. An angel, perhaps. As a young man, he divined the location of the sword of St. Michael the Archangel. He was a junior brother in an abbey at the time, but he and an older monk journeyed to the place he’d seen in his vision and recovered a sword from the pit of a dry well. It was ancient, with glittering gems in the hilt, and despite its age and the conditions in which it was found, it was still sharp as if it were new-forged. A miraculous sword.”

“That’s incredible!” Uccello exclaimed, sitting forward in his seat. “Is it at his abbey now? Why haven’t I heard of this man?” A living saint! Amazing. And not of the self-proclaimed sort either, astounding!

“Holy men who perform miracles should not have grandchildren,” Reni stated, and Uccello felt a jolt, realizing the grave sin in that contradiction. Had any of the man’s supposed miracles been real? Or, were they all a farce, put on by a man who would defy the Almighty for carnal pleasures? 

“She was a noblewoman, and even if he had not pledged himself to the service of the Lord, he was well below her station. Still, I’ve been told she loved him.” Reni’s expression was odd, far-away, as if watching the drama play out in a theatre of his mind, or, perhaps, seeing it in the desperate want on the face of King David, lusting for a woman who was forbidden to him. “She fell pregnant. It was a tremendous scandal, and when it was discovered who the father was, he was publicly whipped, nearly flayed alive. My grandmother, terrified in the face of this public castigation, fled Venice to have her children in secret, planning to return when she knew they’d be safe. It was not to be. She died in childbirth, and my grandfather, for all his gifts unknowing of her fate, believed he’d been abandoned. Worse still, his friend, the older monk who had gone with him to retrieve the sword, had vanished too, and had taken the fantastic sword with him. Outraged by these betrayals, he burned down the abbey and disappeared. I know not whether he still lives.” Reni drank, and Uccello sat in stunned silence. 

Finding his tongue, Uccello asked, “What of the older monk? Do you know what became of him?”

“I do. He was the one who told this story to my uncle, when he was a young boy, being brought up in the care of the rebuilt abbey. The old monk had helped my grandmother flee, and was there beside her when she died. A cautionary tale to my uncle, I suppose. Then, when my uncle was a young man, a stranger in an all-black mask and costume approached the older monk during the celebrations of Carnivale. He introduced himself as Valadier, but the older monk said he knew no such person. The newcomer insisted that the old monk did know him, and then, before my uncle’s eyes, the stranger drew a sword from a red-lacquered scabbard, murdered the old monk, and disappeared.”

“How dreadful,” Uccello remarked, drawn into the tale. The hairs in the back of his neck tingled, and he wondered to how many people Reni had told this story. 

“My uncle believes that this man, Valadier, was once that miraculous young monk— his own father.” 

“/God in heaven/,” Uccello whispered. “But then, what of the other child? Your father or mother?” 

“My mother. Rather than be sent to a convent, she was given into the care of the Doge and Dogaressa of Venice at the time. The Dogaressa was barren, and had always dreamed of having a little baby girl. It was all very /convenient/.” Reni said this word with some venom, and seemed to wash the taste of it down with a deep gulp of his wine. “She was brought up among the Venetian elite, but defying one’s station must run in the family, for she married my father. What a joke. People claimed he was once a hero of the Spanish fleet, having fought in the Battle of Lepanto, but that’s not how I knew him. By the time I was born he’d tried to work his way in with the other Venetian merchants, but the damned fool could not cease in his trade of contraband goods. I knew the visidomo as well as if he were member of the family by the time I was ten, for as many times as he came to our home to investigate my father for illicit sacks of salt or bolts of brocade.” 

“My father was a soldier, too. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. You were right, before, when you guessed I’d never met him.” Uccello refused to shrink into his chair, though the urge was there. The facts of his birth were at the crux of all of his problems with the so-called princes of the Church. 

Reni looked at him with that almost surgical gaze. It made Uccello feel as though his innards were being examined, as though he were being flayed alive, like Reni’s ill-fated grandfather. 

“He went away to war while your mother was pregnant, then?” Reni offered. He was giving Uccello the option to claim that as the truth, but Uccello knew Reni could tell that wasn’t what happened. Why Reni would give him the opportunity to lie, would spare him the indignity of speaking the truth aloud, Uccello didn’t know. He searched Reni’s face, met his heavy stare. His heart thudded.

“No,” he said. “I don’t know what became of him. My mother was—” Had he ever spoken it aloud? He was beholden to speak truth. Lying about her would not honor her, he decided, and, gripping the fabric of his cassock, he continued: “... A whore. And became pregnant by him. Like your grandmother, she fled her home to give birth.” He gave a bitter laugh into his cup. “That would be the only similarity between them. Your grandmother, a noblewoman, who became with child out of love. My mother, continually poor, who begot me by accident, for need of pay.”

“You loved her, though,” Reni observed. “It pains you to speak of her this way. She must have loved you, as well.”

“Yes.” An old, old hurt panged in Uccello’s chest. “She died when I was quite young. I’m ashamed to say I barely remember her face.” 

“Mm. Perhaps you could describe what you remember? I am still unsatisfied with the face of Bathsheba. She isn’t beautiful enough.”

It was... kind of Reni, to assume Uccello’s mother was beautiful. He looked at the cartoon, considered the face Reni had drawn in. It was symmetrical. Classically beautiful. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said. 

“And this is why you are not an artist.” Reni made his way back to his chair as Uccello straightened up in his, affronted.

“I’m sure there are reasons /you’re/ not a cardinal!” Uccello huffed. Reni gave him a strained look.

“Quite a few. But I have strength through God all the same.”

Uccello studied him. “I don’t doubt that,” he said, honestly. Something else occurred to him, and he turned his chair more towards Reni. “But, being that you’re not a clergyman, and therefore you’d have no place to install a reliquary, what would you have done with that sword? Actually, what became of it when the old monk was killed?” 

Reni leaned toward him in turn. His eyes were fixed on Uccello’s, drawing him in with some kind of incontrovertible force. “It doesn’t matter what I should do with it,” he stated darkly. “It ought to have been mine. My grandfather was the one who found it, and it was stolen from him. When the old monk died, it was passed into my uncle’s care and he—“ Reni gripped the arms of the chair, rage passing over his face like a shadow before he mastered himself and continued in a gravelly tone: “He gave it to a nobody. A slip of a girl. An orphan and an urchin with no right to it, no tie to my grandfather’s legacy. He barely even knew her, but after just three days with her in his charge, he gave it to her. After I’d waited for it all of my life. After it had been dangled in front of me, a promise, for /years/, the only tie I had to the grandparents I never knew. And he gave it to her.” He grimaced and showed his teeth, as if biting down on a scream.

Uccello felt a chill run from the base of his spine to his fingertips. Reni’s passion and pain were so clear and bare, Uccello hardly knew what to do with the full weight of them. 

“Did he say why?” Uccello asked in a hushed tone. He wondered if the girl, too, was some kind of holy child. 

“Not satisfactorily. I asked several times, and his answer was always changing. Either, she needed the protection more than I did, or she had the /temperament/ for it, or some other thing. I don’t know what to think.” He scrubbed his free hand through his hair. “‘Temperament,’ ha!” he barked, and Uccello gripped his cup a little tighter, startled. “That’s a tremendous lie above all others. She’s a ruthless wretch, born here of the streets of Rome, to even more pitiable circumstances than yours. She knew neither her mother nor her father, and, it would appear, made her living picking through garbage heaps for bits of scrap iron to resell to blacksmiths. Some ‘temperament’, for the sword of an archangel. Somehow she convinced my uncle to take her in and teach her a proper trade, and just like that, she took everything from me. And, she wasn’t sorry about it. I demanded of my uncle to give the sword to me, his own flesh and blood.” His fist clenched on the arm of the chair, white-knuckled. “He denied me, and so I purchased the sword you’ve seen, and challenged the girl for the sword of Saint Michael.” He took a deep breath, his shoulders rising up to his ears before falling as he exhaled. His eyes studied the pattern of the rug, avoiding Uccello’s gaze for the first time in a while. “She cut this scar into my face. Disfigured me. Still my uncle shielded her. How could he? For all my faults, we were still family. But, he took her over me, privileged her training over my advancement. He abandoned me, made it clear I meant nothing to him.” Reni chewed his lips, visibly fought to maintain control. “So,” he went on in an artificially calm tone, “when he became more and more critical of the Pope, of the Church, of the grand monuments and gilded fineries and the power and pay afforded to the cardinalate, when it became clear there would be consequences, I said nothing. Then came the edict of banishment. He took her with him. I, however, stayed behind.”

Sforza had said there were other artists working under Reni’s uncle, but that Reni was the one who emerged from the fray. He’d also said Reni had gone by a different name before his uncle’s banishment. 

“And so, you changed your name to distance yourself from him?” Uccello asked, more than a little curious about why he chose the name that he did. Reni sighed, and all the tension went out of him. He kicked his legs out across the rug again, but didn’t cross them in the leisurely pose he’d had before. He looked like an exhausted warrior, a man who had trudged in fresh from the fires of battle and collapsed directly into the chair. Uccello could almost see the blood and smoke clinging to him, but it was probably just the ever-present smudges of charcoal.

“Yes.” Reni sounded defeated. “At the time I thought it would erase my connection to all of them. My uncle, my mother, my father. If they didn’t deem me worthy of my grandfather’s sword, then why should I take anything else from my family— a name, a home, anything.” He seemed to have forgotten his wine, the cup dangling from his fingers. “It wasn’t a terrible loss. The name my mother gave me was a rather unfortunate one.” 

“Do you care to tell me what it was?” Uccello didn’t know if he’d be permitted the knowledge. He was surprised Reni was telling him any of this, hadn’t expected to know the artist any better than any other workman. He could be a useful ally, he reminded himself, though, in truth, he’d revealed too much of his own history to maintain an upper hand over Reni. 

Reni gave a sour laugh. “That I shall save for another day. You know me as Camilo Reni. A name I chose to display that I am a servant of the Church, unlike my uncle, and that in defying him, I was reborn. I’m not sure anyone has taken note of that.” 

“Of how carefully you selected your new title?” 

Reni looked up at him slowly, sad eyes pulling up from the floor, pleading with him. Uccello didn’t know what Reni was asking for, but he tried anyway:

“Master Reni, you must be a true artisan, for even your name is your own creation.” 

For a moment, Uccello was sure his joke had missed its mark, like the turnip comment he’d made to Montreux. But by degrees, a smile spread on Reni’s face. 

“I appreciate your effort,” he said, and Uccello could tell he was being mocked, but it didn’t bother him too terribly. He supposed it didn’t matter if he knew the name under which Reni was born. He was curious, surely, but he didn’t know why he felt a sense of arrested satisfaction, a strange sort of anticipation as if standing at the edge of a very tall cliff and being pulled away from it. He felt suddenly incomplete without the knowledge and couldn’t explain it. Why should he need to know details of Reni’s personal life?

“So,” Reni said, focusing again on the cartoon and drawing Uccello’s attention there and away from the breathless ledge in his mind, “tell me about your mother.”

Uccello shifted uncomfortably in his seat, squinting at the lines of charcoal as if he could make the forgotten image of his mother resolve itself there. “Well, she was blonde, and very, very fair. In fact, she was so blonde, her hair looked white, at the height of summer. Her eyes were light, too. Blue, I think.” He struggled. Did the woman Reni had drawn resemble his mother in any way? Very likely, the artist had hired a prostitute to be his model, but besides profession, what did this girl have in common with his mother? Was his mother’s nose curved, or straight? Were her lips thin, or full? He couldn’t remember for certain, thought the face he had in his mind might be a pastiche of other women he’d seen in his life. “I imagine she must have looked a lot like me. Or, I look a lot like her, I should say.”

“Hmm,” was all Reni said. He folded his fingers under his nose, bracing his elbows on the arms of the chair. Uccello studied him, his consistently dirty fingernails, his heavy stare, and tried to divine what the man could be thinking. Probably critiquing his work for the thousandth time. 

“Will you do King David’s ring in bas-relief, so it glitters in candlelight?” Uccello asked, thinking of altarpieces he’d seen that utilized a similar effect, but Reni’s response was lost in the sound of the door being flung open. It hit the far wall and Uccello winced, rounding on Montreux in the doorway to chastise him for being so careless, but he stopped short at the look on the young man’s face. He was carrying two baskets laden with groceries, but rather than being red with exertion he was pale and damp with shock. 

“/Sir,/” he hissed, breathless, “Sir, the Pope, the, he, His Holiness is dead!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s art on my tumblr. Same username la la la...


	7. Young Sick Bacchus

Uccello felt a wave of cold wash over him and struggled to control his face. Countless popes had died before this one, and His Holiness had been in poor health for some time. It was expected. Uccello had known this was inevitable, as it was for all mortal men, but— this was the Pope who had created him Cardinal, who had followed Sforza’s advice against the protestations and had placed him where he was, made him /what/ he was. He didn’t know what would happen in the conclave or after, and it felt as though he’d been shoved bodily into a chasm and he didn’t yet know when he’d hit the bottom.

Reni was looking at him, as if waiting for guidance on how to react. Uccello stood on numb legs and crossed to the door, taking one of the baskets from Montreux and bidding him wordlessly to step out of the doorway so he could close the door. Probably, the bronze door of St. Peter’s was closed already, signifying the pontiff’s departure from this world.

He carried the basket into the kitchen, and Montreux followed him. None of the three said anything. Uccello’s thoughts were whirling. Already, the camerlengo would be beginning the series of rituals that went into the novemdiales—nine days of mourning for the deceased Pope. There would be the three days of viewing for the body, wherein the whole of Rome, indeed the whole of Christendom if they could make the trip, could visit St. Peter’s and pay their respects. And, during that time, all the Cardinals who lived outside the Eternal City would return, in preparation to meet in the Sistine Chapel, and elect the new Pope.

“Does this affect your plans in some way?” Reni asked, leaning against the door jamb between the sitting room and the kitchen. He had his arms crossed, and was gripping his own loose sleeves, probably worried Uccello would cancel the commission in light of recent events. Or else, move the deadline up.

Uccello stood with his back to Reni and his hands flat on the table, fingers spread equidistant from one another. For a while, he was silent, staring at the wood grain.

“No,” he said finally, “nothing should change for you. Not immediately. Regardless of who is eventually elected Pope, and what decisions he should make, I should retain enough in my personal coffers to pay you what you’re owed.”

“/That/ bad, eh?” Reni replied, scratching the back of his hand with blunt nails, “you think you could lose your position if a certain person is elected?”

Uccello squinted over his shoulder at Reni, a grim smile stretching his features. “More than one person, actually. I don’t know if you’ve guessed, but I’m not exactly popular among my fellows.”

“It had crossed my mind. Remember when we first met, I guessed you had something to prove?”

Montreux went about putting the groceries away, keeping his eyes down and pointedly refraining from commenting. Uccello wasn’t sure he’d ever revealed to the young man exactly what was at stake in the upcoming election. In fact, Uccello wondered how long he could keep Montreux on as a housekeeper if he lost his red cap.

“Indeed,” Uccello sighed. “My worth. As a Cardinal. As a man of God. As a person deserving of respect, rather than contempt. I tell myself I am prejudged for the status of my birth, but I do wonder if perhaps my /character/ is the real culprit.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Uccello saw Montreux straighten up as if he was going to say something, but it appeared he decided not to because it was Reni who spoke next.

“You’re not so bad,” Reni said magnanimously. Uccello could not control the open shock on his face.

“/Well/,” Uccello said, recovering, “you’re obliged to say that. I’m paying you.” He turned away from Reni to help Montreux with the groceries. He supposed, now that he’d approved the cartoon, Reni would start work on the fresco. That wouldn’t be affected by the death of His Holiness, at least. But, Uccello realized that he wouldn’t have many opportunities to go and check on Reni’s progress, while the conclave was in session. His heart clenched, and he distracted himself by rifling through the goods Montreux had purchased before everything had gone pear-shaped.

“I’m not obliged to do anything you’re not paying me for,” Reni protested, even as he slid a slim box of smoked fish into one of Uccello’s cupboards. Uccello said nothing, and lifted a few artichokes from the remainder of the shopping, but Montreux took them from him to put them in a hanging basket over the counter. Reni watched Montreux move about the kitchen and said, “I suppose I should take credit for introducing you to your new housekeeper.” 

“Suppose you should.” Uccello handed Montreux a new bundle of turnips. What did Reni want, a reward?

“And I suppose I’m also responsible now for maintaining your reputation and status, through this commission. That’s rather a lot of expectation.” He was as stony-faced as ever, taking up space in Uccello’s kitchen, leaning back against the counter like he belonged. Uccello didn’t think he’d ever had guests in his kitchen. He did his business meetings in the sitting room like a civilized person, but here was Reni, inserting himself into the personal, craving a space for himself in this domestic scene by helping to put away groceries.

“You don’t think you’re up to the task?” Uccello asked. Reni seemed fairly self-important, but, was Uccello truly asking for too much? Was he begging for a miracle?

“It isn’t that. It’s just, had I known what was riding on this from the outset, I might’ve charged you more,” Reni said, tossing a head of garlic back and forth. Uccello frowned.

“Isn’t that a bit dishonest?” he asked, knowing it was pointless. Reni had no delusions about his skill; he knew he was worth the top price the market would bear.

“Oh, I wouldn’t do it to you now,” Reni said, which didn’t really answer Uccello’s question. He placed the garlic in the hanging basket with the artichokes. “Now that I know you better.” 

Uccello’s brows furrowed. Did that mean Reni considered him a friend? More than an acquaintance, surely. As Montreux tidied the last few items away, placing the jug of milk on the floor in the shadow of the cupboards where it would stay cool, laying the bread and a quarter wheel of hard cheese by the knives where they’d be handy for the afternoon meal, Uccello approached the small window over the basin, and bent towards it to appraise the light. Perhaps, if Reni thought of them as friends, they ought to break bread together. 

“Have you already taken your daily meal?” Uccello asked, considering the Lenten restrictions. 

“I didn’t have time,” Reni said, suddenly very close behind him, leaning over Uccello’s shoulder to gauge the afternoon light. “It’ll be sundown by the time I get back to my apartment,” he noted, so close to Uccello’s ear it made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. 

“Y-yes,” Uccello answered, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. He could feel Reni’s breath on his neck, and shuddered. Reni must have felt it, because he breathed out a laugh so quiet Uccello was sure even Montreux wouldn’t have heard it, just a few steps away. Reni stepped back and allowed Uccello to straighten up, brush his cassock free of imaginary wrinkles, and stride smartly to the cutting board, where he could focus on cutting some bread and cheese, and then perhaps a tomato, instead of thinking too much about anything else. 

“Oh, I can do that, sir—“ Montreux offered, but Uccello waved him off. 

“It’s almost done anyway. Will you break your fast with me, Master Reni?” He didn’t look up from his hands maneuvering the knife, and the soft slices of the tomato.

“Why are you cutting that up? Aren’t they just decorative?” Reni asked, and Uccello remembered that Reni had spent time in Florence. Pietra had once asked him to sample this new-world plant, claiming that she had gotten repeated requests for it in multiple dishes, coming from her Spanish clientele, and had procured them even though where she came from, they were tantamount to flowers— used only to beautify gardens and to display in bowls for their color. She’d been reluctant to taste them herself, and foisted that duty off on Uccello. He found he rather liked their tart flavor, and much like the bitter tea from the Far East, had endeavored to add them into his diet. Reni, however, looked suspicious. “I’m not sure those are meant to be eaten as food,” he murmured. “If you’re trying to poison me, now is a bad time to do it. You should at least wait until the fresco is done.” 

“There are toxic variants,” Uccello confirmed, “but this isn’t one of them.” He picked up a slice between thumb and forefinger, careful of the slippery seeds, and held it out to Reni. “Here. Try.” 

Reni, the animal, did not reach for the slice with his hands, but bent to take it with his teeth. His lips brushed Uccello’s fingertips and Uccello snatched his hand back, a yelp of surprise escaping him. 

“For heaven’s /sake/,” Uccello hissed, wiping his fingers on a rag as if he could clean off the feel of the soft slip of Reni’s lips. 

Reni held up his hands, as if in surrender, and slurred around the slice of tomato: “My hands are dirty.”

Uccello could see the charcoal in the creases of his fingers, and pointed to the basin. “Wash up, then,” he huffed, brushing his hands against his cassock for the thousandth time. He caught Montreux looking at him, but when Uccello challenged his look, Montreux busied himself with getting a few dishes out, bringing Uccello’s cup in from the sitting room. Reni meanwhile was thorough with the brush, cleaning his nails meticulously. Uccello watched his hands work, the prominent tendons and knuckles, the long, skilled fingers. 

Montreux cleared his throat and assembled the bread, cheese, and tomato on the dishes. Uccello dragged his eyes away from Reni’s ablutions, watched Montreux drizzle a little oil over the top of the food, and top up their wine. Then, Montreux lifted his plate and began shuffling out of the kitchen. Uccello put up a hand before really thinking about it. 

“Stay,” he said, feeling like Reni was acting strangely, or else trying to get under his skin. Montreux would provide a necessary buffer, and besides, they usually took their meals together, defying convention. Uccello remembered what it was like to be ‘the help’, to be sequestered away from the table where the head of the household ate with his family. “No sense getting crumbs in your bedroom,” Uccello went on. 

Reni looked between them and made a face, and Uccello pretended not to notice. Was this Reni’s high-bred sensibility rearing its head, looking down on Uccello for deigning to break bread alongside his manservant? Was that what all of Reni’s odd behavior was about, that Uccello put away his own things and cut his own food? He couldn’t explain any of it, and he’d thought he and Reni had been getting on so well— until Montreux returned. Montreux hesitated before making his way slowly back to the table. It seemed he’d noticed Reni’s shift in attitude. Uccello was determined not to let it affect either of them and pulled out his chair. After a beat, Reni pulled out the chair beside him, leaving Montreux to sit across the table, ducking his head to wait for Uccello’s blessing. 

Uccello paused, interested to see whether Reni would eat without prayer, do his own prayer, or wait for Uccello to lead. Surprisingly, Reni mimicked Montreux’s pose, head lowered. Uccello smiled to himself as he began the blessing over their small meal. 

Though his eyes were closed throughout, Uccello had the distinct sensation of being watched. He assumed Reni was staring at him, cataloguing his every move. Honestly, the man ought to feel honored he was invited to a meal blessed by a cardinal— regardless of their disparate beginnings. He finished the prayer and picked up his bread. The others followed his example, Montreux swiping his through the gathered oil on his dish,  layering the tomato and cheese slices on top of the bread in a way Reni watched with interest, then copied. Uccello preferred to take his tomato and cheese in turns, but noticed the way Reni immediately took large bites. 

‘Not so high-bred /now/,’ Uccello thought. None of them spoke, however, for quite some time. Alone with his thoughts, Uccello could only think back to the day’s events, turn the news of the death of His Holiness over in his mind again and again. Likely the conclave would begin within the week. He’d cast his vote for Sforza, but, what of the other factions? What of the cardinals coming from farther afield, who would be less acquainted with the affairs of Rome? Would their votes go with Sforza, as well, whose age spoke of temperance and experience, or would they favor Peretti, for his comparative youth, perceived vigor? Granted, Uccello was a good deal younger than Peretti. How would his vote for Sforza look to the cardinals who didn’t live in Rome, weren’t aware of Uccello’s history with the Sforza family? He washed his bread and cheese down with some wine. 

Montreux was the first to break the silence. 

“I’m glad you introduced me to this vegetable, sir,” he commented, stacking another arrangement of bread, tomato, and cheese. “It’s got the right kind of texture for these long weeks of Lent when we can’t eat meat.” 

Uccello nodded. Lent would be over soon. Which would finish first: Lent, or the conclave? Would this be one of those long, drawn-out sessions he’d heard Sforza complain about? It would be Uccello’s first conclave— he hardly knew what would go on at all besides the bare common-knowledge minimum.

“Where do you get them?” Reni asked, and Uccello looked up, drawn away from his thoughts about the future of the papacy. 

“Get what?” Uccello asked, not at all appreciating the way Reni was looking at him as if he was a little slow on the uptake. 

“The tomatoes,” Reni clarified, pointing at the few remaining slices on his plate as if Uccello needed that extra bit of demonstration to understand. 

“Ah,” Uccello replied, abashed. Of course. “From Caupa Pietra di Mercurio, who I assume knows a farmer.” 

“She seems to know someone for everything,” Reni observed drily. Montreux looked at him, brows furrowed, and Uccello shot Reni a chastising glance.

“You perhaps have never met Miss di Mercurio,” Uccello told Montreux, ignoring Reni’s look of feigned innocence. “She owns an excellent tavern, which is frequented by a highly diverse clientele—”

“You could call it that,” Reni murmured, though Uccello pointedly didn’t look at him.

“— hailing from across Europe. As such, she has contrived to purchase tomatoes for her Spanish customers, and eels for the odd Briton. I’ve even convinced her to try the tea drink I like, but she didn’t think there’d be enough interest from other oddities like myself to justify the cost of importation. A shame, because I would so prefer to purchase it from her than from the brother of that awful Cardinal Peretti.” 

“A rival of yours?” Reni asked, instigating. Uccello cast a sideways look at him and wondered whether Montreux should hear about these Vatican politics. 

“Not as such,” Uccello finally sighed. “But he is no friend of mine, let’s say.” 

“He’s in the running to become Pope isn’t he?” Montreux piped up, before ducking his head to his plate again, clearly aware this was a sensitive subject. 

“I see you’ve heard the latest on the betting odds,” Uccello said glibly. Reni lifted his eyebrows. 

“I believe you once told me betting was a sin,” Reni accused, mopping the last of the oil and tomato juice from his plate with the remnants of his bread and taking a vicious bite. 

“No, I told you betting was a /vice/, and that vice often leads to sin. There is a difference,” Uccello corrected. He brushed crumbs from the table, dusted them onto his plate. Montreux hurried to collect it, and Reni’s as well, clearly keen to be of use, and earn his keep. 

Reni made a dismissive sound as Uccello stood from the table. It seemed he didn’t think much of Uccello’s views on the hierarchy of misdeeds, though Uccello felt he was likely the authority between them on the subject, purely by the nature of his job. Of course, if Peretti was elected, Uccello could not say how long that would last.

“I think I shall see how Caupa Pietra is doing in light of recent events,” Uccello announced. He was growing restless with the thoughts of Peretti and what a papacy under him would look like. Reni, too, got to his feet. 

“Surely you don’t think she of all people will be overwhelmed with emotion,” Reni stated. He followed Uccello out into the sitting room, and stalled there, considering the supplies he’d brought with him which he would have to lug back across the city. 

“No, but she may have a lack of business because of it,” Uccello said. “I thought I might help her with that.” 

Reni took a last glance at his materials and kicked them against the wall. “I’ll come with you,” he said. 

“O-oh,” Uccello faltered. He hadn’t expected he’d need to continue to... entertain. Well, he might as well make a night of it, he thought. “What about you, Montreux?” They’d eaten together, after all. 

Montreux stepped quietly out of the kitchen, eyes on the rug. “Thank you sir, but I do have some cleaning I’d like to finish before it gets dark. If that’s... unless you need me to carry something?” 

Reni made a soft sound of derision, and gave a flick of his wrist that showed off the musculature of his forearm. He seemed to be sizing Montreux up, as if he wasn’t practically two of Montreux on his own, with a little extra on top. Uccello rolled his eyes. Always so dramatic, Reni was. Though, Uccello was becoming used to it. Sometimes it was even funny.

“That’s quite alright, Montreux, I won’t force you out into the madding fray again,” he said. “Master Reni’s leaving his things here, which means he’s freed himself up should I have need of a strong back.” Reni caught his eye and Uccello failed to swallow down his teasing smirk. With a huff of a laugh, Reni mirrored his expression, and grabbed his hat from the sideboard. He jammed it on his head, and was as ungentle with the door leaving the room as he had been when he’d arrived. Uccello made a mental note to have Montreux take a look at the scuffs Reni’s boots had left— /kicking instead of knocking, honestly!/— and smoothed his mozzetta before stepping out into the street. 

—————

The evening gathered about them, with a light breeze to stir the cape of his cassock, and twirl the feathers in Reni’s hat. As they walked in silence toward the Taberna di Mercurio, Uccello could see, dotted here and there, the guttering lights of candles, lit in honor of the death of the Pope. The Basilica Santa Maria Maggiore, indeed every church in Rome, would likely be awash in flickering golden light, the dancing flames of thousands of candles filling every house of God. Each candle was a prayer, a blessing, ushering His Holiness towards the kingdom of Heaven on a bridge made from their warm radiant glow. Each flame moved in its own unpredictable way,  almost breathing, and in the windows of the churches, those many candles spilled life into the growing darkness, shining bright as a new risen soul. The convent of San Girolamo glittered in the lane, faceted windows sparkling as the sisters prepared for vespers. It was a humble convent, without the grandeur of a basilica, without complex stained glass or carved facade, but for a moment, Uccello forgot the trouble he was in. He forgot that those twinkling lights could be the fires of his destruction. He paused a moment, to the side of the street, to watch the shimmering reflections of the candlelight as they filled the night. 

“Is something the matter?” Reni asked, though quietly, as if he too were caught by the moment. His voice was close and warm. 

“No, it’s just...” Uccello couldn’t explain himself. It would sound like a flight of fancy. A white-bellied bird swooped through the pool of light and tucked itself under an eave. “Oh, did you see that bird?” he asked, without thinking of it.

“A house martin,” Reni replied. “It’s building its nest a bit early. I wonder if it’s been confused by the weather.” 

Uccello nodded distantly, watched the bird fussing in the darkness, repositioning itself in its little mud cup nest under a lip of stone. Its underside was just barely visible, white feathers catching the light from the window. “Do you know quite a bit about birds, then?” He wouldn’t have been able to name the bird at a glance like that, and was surprised when Reni had. 

Reni shrugged. “I do a lot of drawing from observation. I learn things from that.” He, too, watched the bird. It lifted from its nest, dipped and returned, and Uccello was reminded of something he’d heard in his youth. 

“Do you think it’s true that swallows spend their winters slumbering in the mud at the bottoms of lakes and rivers?” He’d never seen such a thing himself, but he didn’t spend a great deal of time bird watching (despite his name). 

“Of course not,” Reni said immediately. “Any fisherman who says he pulled up a netful of swifts and swallows from the riverbed is telling you, I’m sorry, a fish story.” 

Uccello looked away from the bird to study Reni in the dim light glowing in the windows along the lane. “How can you be so sure?” He had no reason to believe it was true, but wanted to hear Reni’s defense all the same. 

“If you come and sit with me beside the Tiber one day, I will show you. Though the birds skim the water to drink and to catch insects, they never wet their feathers.” Reni turned away from the martin as well, faced Uccello with his face half in light, and half in shadow. 

“Perhaps they do it at night,” Uccello suggested, goading Reni to argue, “the first cold night of November. Then you wouldn’t have observed them.” 

“Well I invite you to hold a live bird underwater and tell me how well it fares. My money says it’ll drown.” 

Reni’s face was so serious, Uccello had to laugh. 

“Don’t be offended— I’m sure you’re right,” Uccello placated. “I only wanted to hear your reasoning.” Reni looked mollified, so Uccello went on. “I read a text recently, on the observance of Lent, which said that before England left the Church they believed that a certain goose was good to eat during the fast, because, it was thought, the goose grew from a barnacle, and thus, it was not flesh, but fish.” 

Reni frowned. “Do you think they truly believed that, or did they simply want for variety in their meals during the Lenten fast?” 

“That I could not say,” Uccello answered. He peered at the martin once more before setting off again. It was only a short distance now to Pietra’s tavern. “Rather a shame Montreux didn’t come along. His sister joined the convent where that martin is building its nest. He could have said hello.” 

“You two are very close,” Reni observed, and Uccello felt that stab again, the reminder of their different upbringings. 

“I suppose you think it’s improper for a man of status to treat his employees with respect, even friendship?” His tone was clipped, perhaps more snappish than was expected of a cardinal. Uccello was sure that would only put another nail in the coffin. 

“That’s not it,” Reni said, half a step behind Uccello despite his height and long legs. “Never mind.” 

Uccello was unconvinced, but let it lie as they came to the threshold of Pietra’s tavern. There were more people inside than Uccello would have expected, behaving as usual, though the atmosphere shifted when Uccello walked in. Some patrons cast unsubtle glances at the kitchen, but Uccello simply moved to a table at the side, and allowed Reni to sit opposite him. 

“You’ll get your wish for chilled wine, I suppose,” he commented, as Reni caught Pietra’s eye across the room. 

“Just one though. I have a long way to walk after this.” They both watched Pietra motion to a server for a pair of glasses. 

“Can’t you hold your wine?” Uccello asked, though he didn’t necessarily want to see Reni drunk. “That surprises me. After all, look at the size of you. I’d think it would take more than a glass or two to slow you down.”

Reni chewed his lip, and avoided Uccello’s gaze, hiding an embarrassed smile. “I’m... well, I haven’t spent much time building up a tolerance to stronger vintages.” That, too, was at odds with the picture of Reni Uccello had been building in his mind. He’d have thought that, coming from a noble family, Reni would have been brought up on quality drink. “And I’ll never get home if I’m stumbling around,” Reni went on, “I’ll be weighed down as it is with my ladder and papers. At least it will be cooler out than when I walked from my end of the city.” 

Their drinks arrived, followed by Pietra herself. 

“Good evening fellows,” she greeted, “or, perhaps it isn’t?” She looked to Uccello, trying to gauge his reaction to the death of the Pope. 

“Eventful, let’s say,” Uccello replied. 

Pietra quirked her brows. “Well, for the rest of us, life goes on, eh? We all just have to get on with the days as they come. Any food this evening, boys?” 

Uccello laughed through his nose. She was just a few years older than he was, but had the funny habit of addressing him as though their gap in age was far greater. 

“We’ve had our daily meal already,” he protested.

“Shame. I’ve some nice roasted vegetables this evening. Perhaps you’ll come for fish Friday?” She liked it when Uccello came for a fish supper, largely because it was more expensive than his usual soups and grains. True though that was, the part of him that remembered the salt air off the sea in days of his youth simply could not resist a nice baked fish. 

“Perhaps I shall,” he agreed. “I’ve introduced Master Reni to a new foodstuff, thanks to you,” Uccello mentioned. “He has now sampled the tomato, and despite his earlier misgivings, has not get perished of nightshade poisoning.” 

“My dear sir,” Pietra said to Reni, placing a hand at her collar as if surprised and affronted. “You underestimate the good cardinal. He’s a learned man, with access to far subtler poisons than the humble tomato.” 

Uccello smiled into his glass. “Besides, Master Reni, a man of your talent deserves a more /complex/ toxin. Something as delicately balanced yet as potent as your compositions.” 

“It sounds like you’re complimenting me,” Reni rumbled, expression dark, “yet for /some reason/, I don’t like it.” 

Pietra’s eyes crinkled at the corners, equivalent, for her, to a laugh. “Well—” she began, but then a commotion erupted from the kitchen and Pietra whipped around, her whole affect changing as she prepared for the worst. Her shoulders shifted like a cat on the attack. She was well accustomed to throwing out unruly customers, but the fact that the disturbance came from the door to the old tunnel was cause for alarm. How many patrons currently dining knew about the old aqueduct tunnel running straight through to the Ortaccio? Certainly some did, but Pietra had a delicate balance of respectability to uphold.

“Stop them from coming out here,” Uccello hissed, “Quickly!”

He’d been speaking to Pietra, but Reni was up and out of his chair in an instant, making his way between the tables and behind the bar as if he belonged there. Uccello stood, shocked for a moment, but then Pietra set off after Reni, and Uccello, left standing, realized he’d have to follow them. People watched them go. A few of the patrons hurriedly paid their bills and left the establishment, either not wanting to be there for the row, or fearing the consequences when a cardinal ‘discovered’ the hidden tunnel beneath the tavern. Uccello hoped it wouldn’t be the subject of gossip in the morning. He had enough already to deal with. 

By the time Pietra and Uccello arrived, Reni had flung open the cellar door that led first to a cool, dark chamber Pietra used for wine and ice storage, and then to a second door, usually hidden by a broken tabletop clients could roll out of the way. He’d thumped down the stairs into the cellar, but the door to the tunnels was standing open, the tabletop inert against a wall, and a man and woman were visible in the square of light spilling from the tunnel beyond, fighting like a pair of street dogs. Reni was trying to separate them as they flailed. Pietra shoved Uccello down a few steps, and closed the cellar door behind them, sealing them away from the light of the kitchen. 

“Quiet, both of you!” she spat, voice quiet but sharp. The struggling pair stilled, and squinted into the darkness. The woman was clearly a prostitute, obvious from her style of dress as well as the fact that her clothing was in a state of half-removal, hanging off of her. The man was almost certainly her john. “What is going on here?” Pietra demanded, though the pair likely couldn’t see her with the cellar door closed.  

Reni had managed to fight his way between them and taken a low, careful stance— the stance of a swordsman— to keep them apart.

“She’s taken my money and then refused to uphold her end of the deal!” the john accused. “She came running out here and when I tried to get her back into the room she starts fighting me like a mad weasel!” 

“You can have your money!” the woman protested, sniffling. “I just want to be alone!” Tears began rolling down her cheeks, and she buried her face in her hands and sobbed openly.

“Giulia, what’s gotten into you?” Pietra asked, bewildered. 

“Nothing, by the man’s account,” Reni commented drily, and Uccello boggled at him. Who could make crude jokes at a time like this? He almost said something to that effect, but Pietra only clicked her tongue. 

“Go get your money from the room, then,” she told the man. “There are other girls. Clearly something has upset young Giulia and she won’t be the kind of company you’re after.” 

“She scratched my face! Nearly took my eye out, the filthy beast!” the man barked. “If you think I’ll pay full price after what this /rabid bitch/ put me through, you have another thing coming. I have half a mind to go to the night watchman, tell people what kind of a nasty place this is, hell, I’ll go to the damn /Pope/—!”

The girl wailed louder, and Uccello stepped into the light, hands clasped behind his back. It seemed the man hadn’t seen him come in before, distracted by his fight with the woman, who had fallen to her knees and was scrubbing at her eyes with her sleeve. He started visibly, and quailed as Uccello drew himself up to his full height. 

“His Holiness is dead,” Uccello stated simply, “but, out of curiosity, what exactly was it you would have liked to have told him?” 

The john fumbled, and Uccello pressed him.

“I’d be happy to relay a message to the Congregation for the Inquisition, if you’ve discovered something indecent. You’ll find they’re very thorough. I’m sure they’d relish the opportunity to ask you all about what you were doing when you found out... ah. What was it?” He smiled, encouragingly.

“Nothing, your, your Eminence,” the man stuttered. 

“Are you sure? I could put in a good word for you. The Inquisitorial Squad may not believe you, but they’d certainly believe me. Of course, if you lie to them, or if another cardinal contradicts you, you might be drawn and quartered. So these kinds of accusations must be treated very carefully.” Uccello was deliberate about his tone. He spoke as if he really only had the man’s best interests at heart, and simply didn’t want him lashed by the Inquisition. He even went so far as to pat the man’s shoulder. Over the man’s head, Uccello could see Reni, struggling to decide what to do about the woman sobbing openly on the floor, just a little ways away from him. He kept making aborted steps toward her, before deciding against it. Uccello took pity and let the john go. 

“You just let me know if you have something to report!” Uccello said as the man scurried back into the tunnel. Pietra watched him go, saw him get invited into one of the open doors that lined each side of the tunnel, and when that door closed, Pietra turned to the crying woman. 

“What in God’s name happened? You’d tell me if he hurt you, right? I’d throw him out on his ear. Don’t want him here if he—“

The woman, Giulia, shook her head. “I was out earlier, before I came here,” she said in a strangled voice, fighting her tears. “And I heard that the Pope died. I didn’t... it didn’t upset me then. But when I walked through the Ortaccio I remembered how one of the first things he did after his election,” she hiccuped, scrubbed at her eyes again, “was to send us all there. Friends I know have been whipped and, and had their belongings taken. I should have hated him! I thought I did, but now that he’s dead I can’t stop crying. I don’t even know what set me off!” She gave a pitiful laugh, wringing her hands in her skirt. “Everything was normal until I took my hair down, and, I don’t know, it must have reminded me of something. I just started crying and the customer didn’t like it and then we started fighting and I came out here but he followed me and that’s when you came in.”  She pulled a kerchief from inside her chemise, and wiped her nose. “And. What’s going to happen, Caupa?” She cupped her hand around her mouth (as if it would help) and whispered, “...With /him/ here?” 

It was obvious she meant Uccello. He moved toward her, knelt down a bit. Fresh tears sprung up in her eyes and it was clear she feared the Inquisitorial Squad as much as her client had. 

“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “The Caupa and I are old friends. As such, I know not to do anything that would upset her.” He cast a grin at Pietra over his shoulder, and she made a dismissive sound. Reni, for his part, had remained mostly quiet, but watched the exchange with interest. “I understand how you must feel,” Uccello soothed. “We in the College of Cardinals knew that His Holiness was sick for some time, but perhaps didn’t think about how his eventual passing would affect all of you, the people of Rome, of which he was bishop— indeed all children of God. We all look to the Holy See, in matters of faith, and, to see proof that the man who occupies it is still mortal, is still human, with the foibles and faults that vex all men... it is distressing. For you it must have been more so. You felt his missteps personally. I can see why your emotions must be conflicted, after the news of his death. So often, the light of God that shines from the Church seems to miss those who need it most: those who have been pushed to the shadows.” 

“Oh, that... do you think so?” She dabbed at her eyes again. “I... Father, I don’t think God would love someone like me, anymore. You um.” She cupped her hand around her lips a second time. “You know what I do, don’t you?”

Uccello smiled. “I do. But was not the Magdalene beloved by our Lord?” Tear-stained and kneeling, she rather looked the part of the Penitent Magdalene, and would probably make a good model for Reni sometime. 

Giulia gave another self-deprecating laugh. “Lord knows it’s been ages since my last confession,” she admitted. Uccello stood and made the sign of the cross over her. 

“You are forgiven. Go with peace,” he said. 

Carefully, she picked herself up from the ground and brushed off her skirt. She straightened her clothes a bit. “Alright. Well. I’m not sure how long your pardon will last. I’m just going to go back to work.”

Pietra cut in. “Do you think you’ll be /able/ to work tonight? Got the tears out of your system?” 

Uccello looked at Pietra, took in her stoic face and statuesque posture. He wondered if she’d ever shed a single tear in her life. 

Giulia nodded, pinched her cheeks to make them rosy. “I’ll keep it together. Sorry, Caupa.” 

“No need,” Pietra said, holding up a hand. “Work if you can, go home if you can’t. The job is as old as time. It’ll be here tomorrow.” 

Giulia actually gave a little salute before she also disappeared through a door in the tunnel. 

“Well, boys, I have a tavern to run, so.” She turned smartly on her heel and strode across the room, finding the stairs easily even without the light from the kitchen and pushing open the cellar doors from the inside. She closed them again, and dropped Reni and Uccello back into the semi-darkness, where they stood in the small square of light afforded by the lanterns hanging from hooks all along the walls in the tunnel. In the quiet, they could hear the muffled sounds of the working girls and their clients through the doors. 

“You were fairly quiet,” Uccello observed. /Aside from the dirty joke,/ he thought. 

“It seemed you had it handled,” Reni replied. 

“You were about ready to fight that man without question,” Uccello accused. “You would have laid him out cold. He was half your size.”

“He wasn’t /that/ small. Besides, I didn’t need to. You utterly terrified him with threats of the Inquisition. Scary thought.” Reni’s moustache highlighted the minute uptick of his teasing smile.

“Don’t you know, Master Reni, I’m from a far scarier branch of the Curia than even the Inquisitors,” Uccello returned. “I’m the tax man.”

With that, Uccello walked into the dark, stepping cautiously until he found the stairs and made his way up. Only when he opened the cellar doors, and the light from the kitchen illuminated the wooden stairs, did Reni follow. 

Once they were back at their table, wine in hand, Reni asked, “Did you really mean all of that, what you said to that girl?”

Uccello looked up from where he’d been watching the shadows of the candle on their table dance on the wall. “Why wouldn’t I?” he answered. “It’s true.”  He took a refreshingly cold sip from his glass. “I’d rather my fellow cardinals didn’t hear me say it, but that doesn’t change the facts.” 

“You think the Church ignores the people ‘in the shadows’ as you put it?” Reni stared at him with his singularly exacting gaze. Uccello didn’t know where Reni was going with this. 

“Well. Perhaps not all the time,” Uccello qualified. “After all, the original purpose of my office in the Curia was not to collect taxes, but grain, so it could be redistributed in times of famine. We do still collect some grain, though the recent years of hardship have depleted our supplies. Taxes serve much the same purpose, though. Roads and water fountains, that sort of thing. But still, there is so much hunger, so much need. If I could empty the pockets of the richest Romans and sell off their palazzos, expunge the leeches and parasites which plague us... I just might do that, to fill every begging bowl in this city.” 

Reni blinked at him slowly, sucked his lower lip for a moment. “Scripture tells us it’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get into the kingdom of heaven,” he said finally. 

“I shan’t speak of whose deaf ears that teaching has fallen upon,” Uccello muttered. “And so in order to move the pieces, I’m forced to play their game. That’s why I’ve hired you, you understand.”

“You’re very dedicated,” Reni stated.

Uccello licked his lips, tasted wine. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was one.”

“Good,” Uccello said. Then, “thank you, I mean.” 

Reni had barely touched his drink, but if he was as sensitive to alcohol as he said, perhaps that was for the best. 

“You’re content to turn a blind eye to the law, though?” Reni asked, and Uccello struggled for a moment.

“What do you mean?”

“The girl. Her job,” Reni explained, leaning forward with his elbows on the table.

“Master Reni, did you forget my /mother/ was a whore?” Uccello replied plainly, his glass dangling from his fingers. 

Reni was quiet for a time. “...Actually, I did,” he confessed. He leaned back in his chair again, looked at Uccello as if trying to fit that piece of information into a puzzle that comprised Uccello as a person.

“Amazing. You remember things I said to you when we first met, but forget things I told you this very day.” 

Reni grinned. “I’ll try to remember it if it’s important to you,” he promised, but it took Uccello a moment to process what he’d said, because he was trying to remember if Reni had ever smiled like that at him. It changed his face. Uccello noted the specific irregularities of Reni’s teeth, and the way the smile distorted his scar. It was like looking at a different person. Uccello forced his eyes down to his glass when he realized he was staring. 

“You know I feel as though I’m falling in step with an ancient tradition by commissioning you,” Uccello said, if only to change the subject. “The strength of a man’s position here in Rome has always been judged by his public works, all the way back to the first emperors.” 

“Don’t ask me to build an aqueduct,” Reni replied. 

“No? What about an obelisk? You wouldn’t happen to have one of those lying around, would you?” Uccello remembered when the obelisk reported to have been brought from Egypt by Emperor Caligula had been moved to stand beside St. Peter’s. It had been shortly after he’d arrived in Rome, and was a matter of some commotion. If he had the spending power that the old emperors boasted, he could simply have some grand monument carted over from an exotic land, and be done with it. Of course, if he had that kind of money, he wouldn’t be in this situation. The Curia would be prostrating themselves for his favor, commissioning artists themselves to send him lavish gifts. He thought about it for a moment, tried to imagine what that kind of life would be like. A palazzo grander than Sforza’s... villas in the picturesque countryside, bigger than his whole village had been. Reni waved to get his attention. 

“I said, ‘I’m sure I’ve been storing an ancient pagan statue on my roof, alongside those cows you mentioned before,’” he repeated. “You looked as though you were far away just then. Were you remembering something? ...Have you ever been to Egypt?” 

Uccello shook his head. “You’ve been farther afield than I have,” Uccello admitted ruefully. He imagined it would be interesting seeing the land where Moses lived, the slopes of Mount Sinai. Though, he expected if he ever traveled there, his skin would speckle terrifically. 

“Perhaps,” Reni said, scratching at his beard, “but, you’ll get to see something I never will, in the conclave. It all seems very mysterious, the way the chapel is shuttered up, and the whole affair is kept in absolute secrecy. It does make you wonder what you’re all getting up to in there.”

“I’m not sure I like your implication,” Uccello replied testily, “but you can be sure I won’t be reporting the Cardinalate’s secrets to you, just to satisfy your curiosity.”

“Even if I ask very nicely?” Reni leaned forward, almost poured at Uccello. It made him uncomfortable. He had to look away.

“Especially then,” Uccello snapped. At that moment, Pietra began her purposeful march across the tavern, alerting people that it (at least the above ground part) would soon be closing. Uccello recognized the walk for what it was, and stood from his chair, polishing off his wine. Reni followed suit and was a little unsteady on his feet when he stood and pushed in his chair. 

Pietra bid them both a good night at the door, before she began dousing the candles as they made their way down the street. Uccello noticed Reni was paying particular attention to where he laid his feet on the cobblestones, and raised his brows. 

“Did the wine really affect you that much?” he asked. He couldn’t remember if Reni’s glass had been refilled once or twice. 

“I did tell you,” Reni mumbled, keeping his eyes on the darkened street, “I don’t have a tolerance. I’m alright, it’s just, these stones are uneven...” 

Uccello rolled his eyes, knowing Reni wouldn’t see him, with his gaze glued to his feet. 

“One wonders what you drink at supper,” Uccello mused aloud, thinking of the Tiber’s stinking water. Wine was far more healthful.

“I live near an aqueduct,” Reni reminded him. “There are plenty of places where the spring water runs off.” 

So that was it. Reni stole his water from the municipal supply, and seemingly in enough quantities to replace wine at his table. Frowning, Uccello thought that with the kind of price Reni charged for his work, he could probably afford to pay a water porter instead. He was deciding whether or not to say so when Reni stumbled, and Uccello was forced to catch him. Reni’s full weight hit Uccello’s shoulder, and Uccello staggered, hastily straightening his biretta with one hand and pushing Reni’s chest with the other. Once he was upright again, Reni continued on as if it had never happened, and Uccello huffed at his back. Reni had crashed into him with some force, Uccello thought, rubbing his shoulder. He might even bruise. But, Reni, big ox that he was, simply carried on, as if he hadn’t even noticed. He caught up with Reni, who finally turned an eye on him. 

“It’s such a long way back to my apartment,” he complained. 

“That’ll give you time to sober up, then,” Uccello sniffed. 

“I’m not that drunk,” Reni insisted. “But think of all the things I have to carry. I could trip again, and damage the cartoon.”

Uccello’s lips pressed into a grim line as he held in a long-suffering sigh. “You’re angling to stay at my home, I gather?” 

“It would be very convenient. I could take the cartoon down in the morning, instead of keeping you and your manservant awake,” Reni reasoned. He swayed a little as they rounded a corner, as if turning his body in another direction was a concerted effort. 

“I haven’t another bed you know. Montreux takes the spare room,” Uccello pointed out. 

“But you do have a nice rug,” Reni replied. “I’ll be fine there.”

Uccello made a face. “On the floor?” A man of Reni’s caliber, sleeping on a cardinal’s floor, like a dog guarding his entryway, was a strange proposition. “This really is very irregular.”

“You’re very irregular,” Reni shot back. 

Uccello was shocked into silence. What did he mean by that?! By the time they reached Uccello’s door, he hadn’t thought of a way to ask. 

When he opened the door, they found the candles extinguished, the hearth cold, and Montreux’s door closed. Reni made himself quite at home, sitting to remove his boots and place them near his materials. Uccello felt strange just standing there, so he climbed the stairs to seek out the down blanket he kept aside for the winter months. It might be a bit warm for a night of early spring, but it was surely soft, and he carried it down the stairs again, taking care with his footfalls so as not to wake Montreux. 

At the foot of the stairs, Uccello could see Reni had already made himself comfortable— or as comfortable as a man on his back on the floor in his breeches could be. He had his fingers laced on his chest and his head on a pillow from one of the chairs, and was staring up at the bare ceiling, but he sat up a bit when he heard Uccello’s approach. Bare chested, but with his stomach creasing where he folded to prop himself up on his elbows, he looked like a statue of Neptune... though Uccello had never seen any depiction of the ancient god with so small a beard. Perhaps Bacchus, then. His tipsy affect was accurate, at least. 

Uccello placed the bulky folded blanket in one of the chairs for Reni to fetch at his leisure. “You’re going to give Montreux such a fright when he wakes up to get the fire going and you’re there, in the middle of the floor,” he noted quietly. 

“Perhaps I’ll be up before him. I keep some fairly unusual hours,” Reni answered, stifling a yawn. 

Uccello grinned at him and took the chair not occupied by a large down blanket. Reni scooted forward to grab the cover, pulled it over himself and lay back down. Beside him, but seated in a chair, Uccello felt a bit like he was at the bedside of a sickly person, or a child. He had a vague memory of Mama Solana perched on a stool beside his bedroll, watching him as he drifted in and out of consciousness with a ferocious fever. He must have been eight, maybe nine years old, and the memory was hazy and ill-formed, but he remembered Mama Solana wringing our a wet towel to lay on his forehead, her brow creased as she frowned down at him, as if she could force the fever from his body with a stern glare. It felt a little strange to be sitting that way next to a grown man, but he’d chosen to do it for some reason, and felt he was obliged to stay a moment. 

Reni for his part looked quite cozy under Uccello’s blanket. Uccello hoped it didn’t smell musty from having been closed up in a cabinet since January without having been aired out. If it did, Reni made no mention of it. Lit only by moonlight through the windows, his relaxed face looked luminous, his eyes shining. They observed each other in the darkness, and the moment stretched out between them before Reni reached out from under the cover and patted the top of Uccello’s shoe where it poked out from under his cassock. Uccello was so stunned, he didn’t think to move his foot. Reni’s hand rested there, overtop the curve of his left shoe, but the man himself said nothing, before he closed his eyes, pulled his hand away, and rolled over into the pillow. Uccello hesitated only a moment before he made a quick retreat upstairs and into the relative safety of his bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check Tumblr or Twitter for some amazing art made by my partner for this chapter!


	8. Saint Francis in Meditation

Uccello awoke with a dry mouth and an oddly disoriented feeling. He shuffled into his dressing gown and house slippers and made his way downstairs, thinking of nothing but the hot cup of tea Montreux would prepare for him. The events of the previous day and night came into sharp focus, however, when he saw Reni sitting at the kitchen table with Montreux, a cup of milk in his hand. He raised it in salutations when he spied Uccello through the doorway. Uccello froze his hand where it had lifted to smooth his hair, and gave a half-hearted wave. There was nothing for it now; this would be the first time Reni had seen him out of his clerical garb, and his hair was uncombed, his face was unshaven, and there was nothing he could do about it. How had he forgotten that Reni was still in his home? Why hadn’t he washed and shaved at his basin upstairs as he usually did? Why did Reni see fit to drink his milk and have a leisurely morning at Uccello’s expense?

Montreux stood to prepare the tea, turning toward the window to carve a chunk from the block of pressed leaves. As soon as Montreux’s back was turned, Reni’s face changed. His mouth turned up at the corners as he took in Uccello’s disheveled appearance, and one of his eyebrows jumped. 

“Now we’re even,” Reni said, as Uccello gave up and strode into the kitchen with as much dignity as he could muster. “You walked in on me when I was sleeping, the first time we met,” Reni reminded him.

Uccello didn’t miss the way Montreux looked over his shoulder at that.

“I didn’t walk in on you. I /knocked/. You were the one who answered the door half-dressed,” Uccello retorted, pulling another chair out with a scrape. 

“Mm,” Reni replied, noncommittally, “then what’s your excuse?” His eyes swept over Uccello again and Uccello fell heavily into the chair, if only to conceal more of his body beneath the table.

“You said you rose at odd hours. I didn’t realize you’d still be here,” Uccello sniped, and Reni’s expression darkened. 

“I see,” he said, making to stand. Immediately, Uccello realized his mistake. He reached across the table, placed a hand on Reni’s to stay him. 

“I don’t mean to say you aren’t welcome,” Uccello stated. He was frightfully bad at this. Threats he could do. At subterfuge and implication, he excelled. Whatever this was, he felt he was always wrong-footed. The warmth of Reni’s hand under his reminded him of the way Reni had patted his foot before rolling over to sleep. Was that the grateful gesture of a drunk, or another inexplicable idiosyncrasy? Reni looked down at their hands, and settled again in his seat. He took Uccello’s hand in his, and made to inspect it, like a street fortune teller. 

“You have unusual hands, your eminence,” he commented blandly. “Calluses in places I wouldn’t expect. Here, obviously, is where you hold your quill. You press very hard with the nib, and it shows in your fingertip.” His index finger traced Uccello’s, rough skin rasping. “Most men of your status I’ve met, they’ve had soft palms. Many have thick wrists.” His finger went from the heart of Uccello’s wrist, where his pulse beat, to the meat of his palm, making his fingers twitch. “Not you, Cardinal Uccello. I should remember this, if I try again to draw you. This particular toughness of your hands. The jut of your wrist bones. These are not the hands of a workman, nor a prince. You’re set quite apart from the Princes of the Church, aren’t you?” 

“Are you trying to insult me?” Uccello asked, finally done with guessing Reni’s meaning. Their hands were still linked on the tabletop, and Reni stroked his thumb into the valley of Uccello’s thumb and forefinger, raising the hairs on his arm, pricking his skin with gooseflesh despite the hearth nearby.

“No,” Reni declared. “Merely observing.”

Montreux turned from the fire with the basket of roasted tea, and Reni let go of Uccello’s hand. He took up his cup of milk again and sipped it, looking past Uccello at the wall behind him while Montreux worked with the mortar and pestle.

“I’ve already told you how I’m different from them,” Uccello huffed. “It isn’t as though I’ve been allowed to forget it.” 

“Yes, well,” Reni replied dismissively, “hands like yours are more fun to draw.” 

Montreux clattered with the hook and the kettle, hissing a bit as the rag he used to grip the handle of the kettle slipped, though he repositioned and didn’t spill. 

“Montreux here is a perfect illustration of the benefit of well-worn hands,” Reni went on. “If he’d the hands of a rich man, I imagine touching that handle would’ve burned him quite badly.” 

“If he had the hands of a rich man, he’d have somebody else to lift his kettle,” Uccello retorted. He could see the tips of Montreux’s ears going pink from the attention, and knew the man was stalling as he poured the water slowly, probably willing them to stop talking about him before he could turn and face them.

“True enough,” Reni conceded. “I never really wanted to be wealthy, myself.” He scratched at the scrubby beard clinging to his chin. “Powerful, learned... but not necessarily wealthy.” 

“What a pity it’s hard to be either of the former without first being the latter,” Uccello mused. “You could take a vow of poverty, go and be a monk somewhere, spending your days squinting at ancient texts, copying out tomes like Saint Jerome. He’s buried in the basilica where your work is to hold pride of place, you know.” 

“Poor and learned, but not powerful,” Reni argued. “And he always looks like such a miserable wretch in all the artwork I’ve seen of him.” 

“He was sainted,” Uccello returned, as Montreux finally stepped around the table with the mug of hot tea. “That’s not enough power for you? To be beloved in the kingdom of Heaven, honored with orders and edifices in your name?”

Reni shrugged. “I’d be dead by then,” he said, somewhat blasphemously as it rather implied that those welcomed beyond the gates of Heaven were not necessarily granted life everlasting in the love of the Almighty. Uccello frowned. “If I could only regain my grandfather’s sword, then things would be different.”

/The sword of Michael Archangel,/ Uccello remembered, for how could he forget? Something hungry and covetous tugged at his heart, wanting to see the fabulous weapon for himself. To see it wielded in Reni’s grip— the sword Reni possessed was already a terrifying thing, drawn at only slight provocation. But to have a legendary blade, one that never dulled nor rusted, one which, perhaps, could burst into the cleansing fires of the infinite and purge all evil, in Reni’s clever hand... the thought did not give Uccello unto the fear he logically believed it should. What would Reni look like, his eyes ablaze with flames of holy retribution, clad in gleaming armor as the Archangel was often shown, a pair of great and powerful wings sweeping out behind him? It was fairly easy to imagine. 

“What are you thinking of?” Reni asked, leaning towards Uccello across the table. Uccello shook himself— he’d probably had a glazed expression on his face, having been quiet long enough for Montreux to tidy away the tea preparation set. 

He was saved from having to explain himself by a knock at the door. Montreux hurried to answer it and Uccello stood to retreat upstairs, where he could shave and dress quickly if there was to be company. Well, more company than just Reni, who had seen fit to make himself part of the furniture. 

Montreux tapped softly on his door a few moments later, as Uccello prepared his shaving kit. 

“A message sir,” he said, when Uccello answered the door, toweling his face. 

Uccello took the folded parchment. It was an official notice from the office of the camerlengo, the man responsible for running the affairs of the office of the Pope between the death of one and the election of the next. It announced the death of His Holiness, laid out the dates of the nine-day mourning period, and formally summoned him to the conclave. It would begin the following Thursday, and Uccello knew that in the intervening period, he would need to go to St. Peter’s to view the body and pay his respects, and indeed may be invited to view the cutting of the Pope’s Ring of the Fisherman, so that no fraudulent documents could be sealed with its sigil. 

“Sir, you’ve missed a spot,” Montreux said, after Uccello had read the letter over several times, pondering what his days would be like over the next few weeks. “Just there,” Montreux clarified, pointing to a spot under his own chin. Uccello reached up and felt the rasp of stubble in the shadow of his chin. He wasn’t normally so careless. He returned to his bowl and mirror, and Montreux hesitated a moment in the doorway. Uccello turned, razor in hand, and waited for whatever else Montreux had to say. 

“What should, that is... would you prefer Master Reni to stay?” He was pulling nervously at the hem of his shirt again. 

“I wouldn’t ask /you/ to try and turn him out,” Uccello replied glibly, and almost laughed at the obvious relief in Montreux’s face. 

Shortly thereafter, Montreux left him to his ablutions, and when Uccello returned to the front room, dressed and shaved, his hair neatly combed, it was to find Reni up on his ladder, carefully working the tacks out of Uccello’s wall, to roll and stow his cartoon again. 

“What was that about?” Reni asked, though it was slurred by the tacks in his mouth. 

“Summons to the conclave,” Uccello replied. Reni acted as if /his/ morning had been interrupted, as if he wasn’t an interloper in Uccello’s home. Regardless of the spareness of Reni’s sleeping accommodations the previous night, the man had seemed quite comfortable in the morning, as if he belonged, and now that he was preparing to leave, Uccello had the most unusual sensation of /expecting/ Reni to be there at his kitchen table, the next day, or before Mass, or when Uccello left for the conclave in nine days’ time. It was as if he was planning what he’d say to Reni, how he’d greet him, what meals they might have, but the thoughts were only half-formed in his mind before he reminded himself that in a few hours, it would be just him and Montreux again in the house. Strange what a single day and night could do. 

Reni dragged his feet about leaving. He didn’t say anything specific about not wanting to begin the long trek back to his apartment, but Uccello could tell he was dawdling. Probably he’d realized the morning had gotten away from him, and it would only get warmer as the day wore on. Uccello did not envy him the task of lumping his ladder and supplies all the way back across the city. He watched Reni tie the ends of the tube where he’d stowed the cartoon, over and over. 

“Is it going to be like this when I’m painting? You standing behind me, watching? Saying nothing?” 

Uccello swallowed his grin. “I could offer commentary if you like,” he said easily. “For example, that’s the fourth time you’ve re-tied that and I’m beginning to wonder if you’re simply wasting time, or if you’re attempting to fashion the world’s most beautiful knot.” 

“Very funny,” Reni replied without emotion. “It is to laugh.” He straightened and turned, leveled Uccello with the full weight of his intense stare. 

Uccello thought perhaps he’d never get used to it, the way Reni’s gaze seemed to lance right through him. After a long silence, Reni leaned closer to him, and Uccello’s breath caught. He was very close indeed, so close Uccello could feel his breath on his freshly-shaven cheek. 

“You look very different before you’ve shaved,” Reni said, leaning back again. Uccello let out the breath he’d been holding. “I ought to have tried to sketch you. Your beard must grow very quickly. Actually I’m a bit jealous.” He rubbed at his small beard again. “Why don’t you let it grow in?”

Uccello had several answers to that: not wanting to draw attention to the unusual color of his hair, not wanting the hassle of styling it, not sure it wouldn’t make his face look even rounder. But, he couldn’t speak any of them aloud. He didn’t want to give voice to the insecurities of his appearance in front of Reni. 

“It isn’t... a look I wish to cultivate,” he answered, finally. Reni nodded slowly, and turned back to his things. 

“You’ll let me know when the bishop has closed the chapel for me?” He’d begun slinging his materials over his broad shoulders. Uccello watched him, could see the way he realigned his posture, preparing himself for the long trek ahead. 

“Of course. When can you begin?” It was hard to resist the urge to wring his hands, feeling time slipping away before the conclave would be upon him. 

“Immediately. Make your preparations with the bishop. Then, I will be there.” He gave Uccello another long look, then nodded and made his way to the door, where Montreux let him out. As soon as he stepped out from Uccello’s door, he was bleached by the afternoon sun, but he turned down the street and was gone without another word, leaving Uccello with nothing but the tack holes in his wall. 

—————

It was important, necessary even, to make his appearances during the viewing of the dead Pope’s body. He’d have to keep a look out for the cardinals coming from all over Christendom, and take note of with whom they were associating. How many had been influenced by Peretti already? Uccello hadn’t been a cardinal long enough to know whether or not certain others who had gone home to their various countries had ever been close with Sforza. Uccello had to wonder how much influence the far-flung cardinals would have on the conclave. Eight days was not a lot of time to make moves or pull strings. 

St. Peter’s basilica rose like an island out of the sea of mourners. There was no division of classes here, no separation of whores from holy men. This first day was likely populated predominantly by locals, and those coming from less than a day’s ride away. Scanning the crowd, Uccello was glad for the bright, unmistakable scarlet of a cardinal’s cap and cassock, to pick them out from the teeming masses. It helped also that Uccello was himself a tall man, able to see over the heads of most. He saw some men he recognized, a bishop, a cardinal priest, a fellow cardinal deacon. Once inside the basilica itself, he spotted Bianchi, from his department at the Curia, standing to the side and apparently alone, staring impassively toward the glass case at the center of the room. Then, somewhat surprisingly, he noticed Cardinal Priest Jean-Pierre Fouquet, who had, as a cardinal deacon, previously held Uccello’s own position at the Curia. Uccello hadn’t expected to see him in Rome so soon. To Uccello’s knowledge, Cardinal Fouquet had returned to France shortly after Uccello had himself been created cardinal. How had he even heard of the Pope’s death already, much less made the trip? He must have been in Rome already on some other business. 

A papery hand fell on Fouquet’s shoulder, and Uccello’s fists tightened within the confines of his sleeves. It made sense, of course, that Fouquet and Sforza would be friendly. Had not it been Sforza who recommended Uccello to Fouquet’s vacated post? And, he would be another vote for Sforza, and against Peretti. But, a part of Uccello would never forgive Cardinal Fouquet for the mishandling of the Congregation for the Annona. At base, Uccello knew, Fouquet was self-serving. How much worth could an ally like that be, to a man like Sforza?

Uccello looked on as Sforza leaned down to murmur something to Fouquet. Across the room, Uccello couldn’t hear it, but Fouquet nodded solemnly, and continued to gaze in mournful respect at the deceased pope. Uccello moved closer to the center of the room, and peered onto the glass coffin. 

The dead man looked like a wax effigy. Here was a man whom Uccello had known, had spoken with regularly. Here was a man who, two days ago, was the holiest man alive, and among the most powerful. In the glass case, his hands placed together overtop his richly embroidered vestments, he looked almost entirely unlike the man Uccello had served under these last few years. He looked as though, upon the departure of his spirit, some other necessary part of him, something which made him recognizable in life, had gone with it. There was a distinct line on his ring finger, where his ring of the fisherman had been removed after years of his having worn it and stamped documents with it. His cheeks were sunken and thin. His skin was pale and bloodless, worse than a painted statuary. Was this why Uccello felt so frankly unmoved by the sight of the pope’s body? Was it because, with his immortal soul gone to the kingdom of heaven, the body was just an empty thing? Around him, he heard sniffles, muffled crying from the people of Rome and beyond. He remembered the girl in Pietra’s cellar the night before. He murmured a benediction and tried to understand the girl’s grief. Studying the high cheekbones, the shadowed eye sockets, the wispy hair beneath the episcopal mitre, Uccello could not muster any particular feeling other than worry for the future. Was he, then, as self-serving as he believed Fouquet to be? 

Lifting his eyes from the casket, he met Sforza’s gaze across the room. Sforza nodded, and began to move through the crowd, and Uccello understood that he was to follow. He sidled through the masses, keeping his eyes on the back of Sforza’s cap, until they emerged from the basilica and into the streaming sunlight. Uccello shielded his eyes and looked around for some shade. Caligula’s obelisk cast a long black stripe across the square, and Uccello headed for the base of it, away from the crowd. He’d thought the heat wave had broken, but perhaps it was back again. 

Sforza, a slower walker than Uccello was, cut across the square with Fouquet in tow, and met him at the foot of the ancient spire. 

“Terrible thing,” Fouquet said immediately. “I understand he was sick for quite some time, no? Dreadful to think how he must have suffered.”

“Humbling, as well,” Sforza replied, and Uccello nodded. Indeed, if the holiest man alive could be left to suffer by the almighty, it did inspire humility about one’s own station. 

“Young Uccello, how long has it been?” Fouquet queried cheerfully, without, Uccello noticed, the use of his title. “You’re taking good care of my little Congregation for the Annona, I trust?” 

Uccello felt his face twitch, tried to hide it by scratching beside his nose. /His little congregation,/ what a load of tripe. If Fouquet noticed Uccello’s small facial tic, he didn’t say anything about it. 

“Oh course,” Uccello replied. “I am giving it the best of my efforts.” 

“Wonderful, wonderful,” Fouquet answered, clapping Uccello on the shoulder. His hand was not so large as Reni’s for example, but felt heavy. He was not so tall as Uccello or Sforza were, with slightly wavy blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and an ever-present smile. His skin had a healthy glow of color, probably from his years spent in the South of France since Uccello had taken over for him in the Curia, and he had the easy geniality of a man unaffected by work, or difficult decisions. Uccello imagined that, back in France, Fouquet’s status as a cardinal priest garnered him far more attention than it would, surrounded by the College of Cardinals in Rome. He was likely the highest authority in the Church, in his area. Was he as lackadaisical about his duties there as he had been in the Congregation for the Annona? Did he merely allow the position to enrich him whilst failing to enrich the lives of those to whom he ministered? Uccello’s nails bit into his palms. 

“Fortunate that you were already in Rome when all this came to pass,” Uccello commented. “Else you would have been pressed for time, hastening to attend the viewing and prepare for the conclave.” 

“Oh, I know!” Fouquet laughed. “Dear old Scipione invited me to view a painting he’d acquired. Of course, we could not have known that these were His Holiness’s last days. Can you imagine what trouble there would be had I left Rome earlier? I might still be on the road when it happened, and how would anyone contact me? I wouldn’t have received the news until I was back at my château, and then I would have had to turn right round again and express back to Rome. My carriage driver and footman would not have been happy about that, I’ll tell you.” 

Uccello nodded, but he was caught up in wondering when Sforza had become ‘dear old Scipione’ to the cardinal priest. Sforza and Uccello had known each other for over twenty years, and Uccello had never seen Fouquet around the Sforza family home, nor Sforza’s personal palazzo. Still, they must have been great friends, for Fouquet to come all the way from France only to see a painting. Uccello himself hadn’t been invited but he was hardly surprised; he and Sforza both knew that Uccello didn’t have the refined eye of an art connoisseur and patron. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps his association with Reni would change that. 

“Yes, I know Jean-Pierre has a particular fondness for mythological paintings, and wrote to him about a painting of Pentheus in the grip of the Maenads,” Sforza explained. “He of course jumped into his carriage straightaway.” He said it like it was a private joke between himself and Fouquet, and Uccello wondered if Fouquet often came all the way to Rome just to see a new addition to Sforza’s collection.

Uccello didn’t know who Pentheus was. He had only a vague idea who the Maenads were. It must have shown in his face, because Fouquet touched him on the arm and said, “Pentheus is a character in a play by Euripides, the Bacchae. He’s a king who doubts the divinity of Bacchus, and in revenge Bacchus sends him out into the forest where his, that is, Bacchus’s followers, the Maenads, rip him limb from limb. The painting isn’t so grisly as all that, but it has an impressively complicated composition. A tour de force in figure painting.” 

Gritting his teeth, Uccello struggled to form a response, trying not to show how little he appreciated being explained to. He’d never been to a play, did not know if Euripides was some sort of major ancient playwright, or whether this play in particular was one he ought to know. 

“Are there many artists in France making work on mythological themes?” Uccello asked, drawing the conversation away from playwrights he’d never heard of. He imagined that, as Rome and its empire had rather inherited the mythology of the ancient Greeks, France was perhaps a little far-removed from the source. 

“Some, some,” Fouquet answered, gesturing dismissively with one hand. “We’ve a Medici queen on the throne again so you can imagine that influences people. Still, it’s nothing like—“ he waved his hand around, indicating the whole of the city, “And though I do love my home, I sometimes pine for the collections of my friends here in Rome.” He nudged Sforza’s arm. “It’s hard not to, especially when they’re all such gracious hosts.”

Sforza rolled his eyes and turned mock-conspiratorially to Uccello. “Cardinal Fouquet has thoughtfully offered to avail himself of my home for the length of the conclave. Apparently he believes I suffer from lack of company.” 

Uccello gave a tight smile. At least he wasn’t alone in finding Fouquet irritating. 

“What about you, hm? Have you developed a weakness for a certain style as I have?” Fouquet asked Uccello. It wasn’t clear whether he knew, or indeed remembered, Uccello’s less than illustrious background, considering how long he’d been away in France. The fact that he felt obligated to explain a classical play suggested he was aware, but this question was like an invitation to participate in a rich man’s game. 

“He’s commissioned a large fresco for one of the seven papal basilicas,” Sforza noted. “I think you said my advice on which painter to hire proved fruitful, didn’t you?” 

Nodding, Uccello refused to divulge what a strange man Reni was with whom to work, or share a meal.

“Oh indeed?” Fouquet urged, intrigued. “Don’t keep us in suspense, what are you having done?”

“I think the surprise will be worth it,” Uccello replied. “Suffice it to say, the artist is incredibly skilled. I have every confidence his work will be a crowning glory for the new chapel.” 

Fouquet made a comment about how many trips back and forth between his home in France and Rome he could possibly make, just to see all the great art, and then the conversation turned to other things. Sforza did not bring up the conclave, nor who was likely to be considered for election or whom Fouquet would support. Uccello assumed that meant the cardinal bishop was fairly secure in the knowledge that all present would vote for him.

The shade provided my the obelisk shifted with the passage of time, and soon, the sun was shining directly upon Fouquet’s face, lighting his blonde hair almost white. He shielded his eyes and looked up at the sky with a slight grimace. 

“I hadn’t realized it had gotten so late,” he tutted. “I was meant to go visit another friend. He says the trees blooming in his sculpture garden are a sight to behold. Scipione, I shall see you tonight. Young Uccello, good to see you. À bientôt!” He gave a little bow and set off across the square, weaving through the crowds coming and going from the basilica. Sforza and Uccello watched him go, and Uccello wondered if perhaps he ought to ask Sforza to see this new painting of his which had brought Fouquet to his palazzo. 

“I know he can be a bit, hm, excessive,” Sforza said, once Fouquet was out of their line of sight. Uccello turned, but Sforza wasn’t looking at him, his gaze fixed on the far end of the square. “But, he has served the Church for a very long time.” 

The implication of course was that Uccello should make nice with him. 

“We spoke to Bianchi a moment, before you arrived,” Sforza stated, folding his hands in an elegant pose. “Jean-Pierre was obviously well acquainted with him from his tenure in the Congregation for the Annona. Bianchi said you were doing a good job in the Curia, that you had a keen mind for detail. Jean-Pierre wanted to tell you he’s impressed with how you’ve managed the Annona these last few years. I think he was trying to say that, in his way.” 

Uccello was gobsmacked. Fouquet was /impressed/ with him? Fouquet, who never seemed to care much for his assignment to the Congregation when it was his, but now, with Bianchi’s benediction, thought Uccello was doing a good job? Privately, Uccello wondered if Bianchi had compared Uccello’s performance against Fouquet’s specifically (he must have; who else would he have to judge by?) and had decided that Uccello was superior. It would surprise him only in that Bianchi spoke so little, and did not seem particularly interested in making his own mark in the Curia. It seemed that Bianchi’s plan was simply to wait the standard ten years as a cardinal deacon before he’d be elevated to cardinal priest and would no longer need to serve within a Congregation. Even still, for someone like Bianchi, a man with no passion for the Annona, who did his work and no more or less, to have compared the two cardinals who had served as head of the branch and found Uccello superior, it stirred something in his heart. Fouquet was far more in keeping with the traditional lifestyle of a cardinal. He came from a wealthy family, with lands in France; he was probably related to a noble of some kind, or else a wealthy merchant or vintner or somesuch thing. He spoke in a very genteel manner, if a bit more /flourishing/ than most people Uccello knew. But, it had been Uccello’s opinion that for all of Fouquet’s poise and polish, he was utterly terrible at his job. How thrilling to know he wasn’t alone in his estimation. And, better still, it seemed Fouquet himself was willing to admit that on some level, by telling Sforza he was /impressed/ with Uccello’s work. 

Sforza tapped him just once on the upper arm, drew his attention away from the constantly shifting crowd. 

“You’ve done well,” Sforza said. Uccello had to clench his fists inside his sleeves not to smile. A lump rose in his throat and he swallowed it down, feeling his jaw ache with the effort. He bowed a little, just to hide his face if nothing else.

“Thank you, your Eminence,” he replied, and it sounded almost normal. 

Sforza nodded, and straightened, face toward the open doors of the basilica. “Jean-Pierre isn’t the only one interested in seeing what becomes of your fresco commission. I’ll be waiting to see what the two of you, that is, you and Camilo Reni, come up with.” 

He didn’t say anything more, and after a pause, stepped back out into the sun to join the throng of mourners. His was the brightest spot of red in the crowd; Uccello didn’t see any more cardinals. Had Peretti already been and gone, or was he tardy in paying his respects? Uccello hoped it was the latter; it certainly wouldn’t look good if one of the favorites for papal election was /late/ in performing what was expected of him. But, if Sforza thought Uccello was doing a good job, then it was all the more important that Sforza be elevated to the Holy See over all others. He deserved it. 

It grew awkward standing in the shade of the obelisk, set apart from the flow of foot traffic in and out of the basilica, and so eventually, Uccello made to leave. He kept his eyes peeled however, alert for the appearance of a flash of scarlet in the crowd, but it was a wasted effort. He hadn’t seen Peretti in days, and couldn’t guess at who his supporters might yet be. 

Retreating into his home to wait out the heat of the day, Uccello noticed the pits in his wall, left by Reni’s tacks. Eventually, something would have to be done about those... but first, he’d have to speak with the bishop and have the new chapel closed off for Reni’s workspace. Uccello could picture it: Reni on a scaffold, smoothing plaster onto the wall, golden shafts of light illuminating him and drawing his shadow onto the surface, just as Uccello himself was silhouetted on his bare wall between the tack holes and chips. 

When Montreux walked in, Uccello realized he must have looked a bit foolish, staring at a wall with nothing on it. 

“These pits in the wall are less than ideal,” he commented. “Perhaps you were right, and I ought to cover the wall in some floor to ceiling design to cover them up.” 

Pausing with the broom and dustpan (it seemed he’d already cleaned up the plaster dust where Reni’s supplies had been), Montreux inspected the small divots. 

“I’m sure Master Reni intends to patch those,” he said. “Of course, he’ll be fairly busy with your painting, won’t he?” 

“Yes, I... ought to write to the bishop,” Uccello replied, though he didn’t move immediately. He was picturing Reni, again on his small ladder in this room, stretching his well-muscled arms up to smooth fresh plaster into the pits. If Uccello could have a fresco of his own, if he could afford such an indulgence, what would he have painted there? Something pleasant, pastoral, perhaps even relaxing? Or, would he instead hang a canvas, something less permanent than a fresco, something he could take with him if... well, if the unthinkable happened and he was stripped of his red cap and was forced to move into more affordable lodgings. In that case, maybe Reni’s self-portrait as David would fit, to remember all of this by. It was clear as day in his mind: the ripples of flesh, the folds of fur, the intense, contemplative expression. If other cardinals had devotional works and gilded altarpieces, to guide them in their prayer, then Uccello would have the image of Reni as the young hero David, seeking strength through God when faced with a seemingly insurmountable foe. 

Rubbing his chin in thought, planning his words to the bishop, Uccello remembered how focused Reni had been on the difference between his unshaven face and the face he showed the world. Was Reni studying his one-day beard growth for a character in another painting, perhaps? Maybe it was just the unusual color Reni noticed. Trailing his fingers along his cheeks, Uccello called back the sensation of Reni so close he could feel his heavy breath on his skin. His fingers followed the seam of his own lips, mindlessly distracted by that, their sensitivity. They’d been so close, he and Reni, while the artist inspected his freshly-shaven face, an accidental movement could have brought their noses, even their lips together. Uccello shivered, and wiped his palms on his cassock, scurrying upstairs to collect his inkwell and quill. 

He sat at his kitchen table for a long time. The note should be simple; something to the effect of ‘my artist is ready to begin work, please close the chapel to any but him immediately’ should suffice, but, should he say anything more about Reni? It was likely he and the bishop would become well acquainted over the course of the work. Should he describe the man? Should he issue a warning? How would he outline Reni’s character to the bishop, in a short letter? Volatile, brooding, but clever, and funny, in his own way. Attentive. Passionate. Uccello chewed the feathery tip of his quill— a bad habit. Perhaps he ought to formally introduce the two men. In fact, he could set out for Reni’s home in the morning, while it was still cool, and bring him to the basilica to meet the bishop. Blotting his quill, he composed a different message, asking the bishop to make himself available the following morning. It was remarkably difficult to find a messenger, with the whole of Rome turned upside down by the viewing of the Pope’s body, but Montreux knew somebody, and the note went as quickly as Uccello could hope to get it there.

In the morning he bolted out of bed, rushed himself through washing and dressing. Of course he could excuse it to himself by saying he only wanted to be sure to leave for Reni’s apartment before it was too hot out, or that he was merely determined to get Reni started on the piece as soon as possible, but in his heart he knew that wasn’t the whole truth. He wanted to see Reni. Of course he was an excellent connection to have, and perhaps his work would convince some other cardinals that Uccello was justly among them, but... aside from all that, Uccello had begun to think of Reni as a friend, rather than simply means to an end. Unlike artists in the city of Rome, friends were in short supply.

Appraising himself in the mirror, Uccello almost decided not to shave, if only to see what Reni would say. But then, the scruff of his beard began to itch and he took up his razor after all. His face was smooth as ever as he made his way downstairs, feeling absently for spots he might have missed. Montreux, knelt in the hearth and struggling to get the fire started, did not see him at first, not until he pulled his head away from the ash to sneeze. He wiped his nose and left a soot mustache behind. Uccello offered him a cloth. 

“Sorry your tea isn’t ready yet, I didn’t expect you up this early,” Montreux explained, mopping his face with the rag. 

“No, I understand,” Uccello stated, although he did somewhat mourn the loss of this morning ritual. It was his own fault, he knew, for not telling Montreux he’d be leaving early. “I may not return until the afternoon, possibly the evening.”

Montreux wiped his dusty hands and asked if he should prepare supper. Uccello thought about it. It might be considered odd for him to invite Reni to dine with him so soon after the last time. 

“Yes, you might as well,” Uccello sighed, brushing his mozzetta off pointlessly. “I’ll give Finale a pat for you,” he said, and headed out the door. 

It was still cool out this early in the morning, but would likely be baking by the time he and Reni found their way to the basilica. All around him the city was waking. The bakers having been up for hours already, the smell of fresh bread wafted from their open windows. The greengrocer on the corner heaved baskets of vegetables into a cart to go to market. Children rubbed their eyes as they went about their various chores, jobs, and apprenticeships, sweeping the stoops of shops, scrubbing windows and driving animals out to the open green. The pink light painted the cobblestones, and made the buildings appear as marzipan sweets. A stable boy sprung up from a wooden stool as he approached, bowed gawkishly.

“Can you tack my horse? It’s Finale, the black jennet, there,” Uccello instructed, pointing out his horse’s stall. He hoped he wouldn’t have to wait for Giuseppe. The stable boy stumbled toward the tack shed, awkward as a newborn foal and clearly half asleep. It seemed he was going through a growth spurt, the cuffs of his trousers too short and his gait unpracticed and ambling. Uccello hoped he didn’t drop the saddle.

“Who do you think is going to be Pope next, uh, sir?” the boy asked. Poor thing, his voice cracked on the word ‘next’ and it was clear he was embarrassed about it. 

“I wish I knew,” Uccello answered honestly, stroking down Finale’s nose as the boy smoothed the blanket over her back before settling the saddle. “Why, have you made a bet with some of your friends?”

“Oh, uh, no, that’s illegal, isn’t it?” The boy looked away from Uccello, concentrated on bringing the cinch under Finale’s belly and fastening it well. Uccello had to assume that indeed, the boy had put a little money toward one candidate or another. He wasn’t going to be the one to say anything about it though. 

“It is, but you and I both know it still goes on. I know that the bookkeepers have their odds, but even I don’t know how the conclave will turn out. And I won’t know, for another week at least.” He stepped out of the way for the boy to buckle Finale’s bridle. 

“Who are you gonna vote for?”

Uccello pressed his lips together. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. The conclave is supposed to be absolutely secret.” 

The stable boy clicked his tongue, but let it lie, testing the fasteners and straps, pulling a comb from his pocket to give Finale’s mane a final once-over. He must have been up well before dawn to brush, feed, and water the horses, muck out their stalls, and whatever else stablehands did, working by lamplight. All of this, just in case someone, like Uccello, needed his horse at first light. Uccello tipped the boy for his trouble and swung himself into the saddle, squinting into the sun as he struck out toward Reni’s apartment. 

Reni wouldn’t expect him, of course, and there was the possibility he would be busy, or not at home. Uccello could only hope that Reni would be available, so they could make their way to the basilica together. He thought that would be the smoothest course of action, being able to personally introduce Reni and the bishop, and then Reni could get to work on the fresco. He’d said he was ready to begin. 

As he guided Finale down a side-street, where they’d be sheltered from the sun’s glare by the rows of buildings, Uccello remembered the first time he’d surprised Reni at his door. The man hadn’t been wearing trousers, and had stumbled through the introduction like a drunken lout. Uccello smiled to himself. Now that he was getting to know Reni, these rough edges were... like the jagged face of a cliff. The unexpected sharpness, and the places worn smooth by the elements, were what gave the natural formation its character. Beauty, even. Uccello was no artist, and could not speak of beauty in the way a poet or a painter might, but he had seen some things in God’s creation, made by the Almighty just so, and he would not change them for the world. 

As Uccello approached Reni’s building, the sun just crested the houses opposite, so the new light blazed upon the tawny plaster. Reni’s window shone like liquid gold, or like the winking eye of a cheerful giant, staring down at the street. A woman with her hair tied up in a scarf trudged out from the lower entryway of the building, a scrubbing brush in one hand and a wooden bucket balanced on her hip. She ducked her head when she saw Uccello, dropping the brush into the bucket with a splash. 

“Good morning, sir, can I help you?” 

Reni’s landlady, he had to assume. He supposed she still didn’t know about the hole he’d cut in her ceiling. 

“I’m here to see Master Reni. Do you know if he’s up and about?”

She squinted into the sun and then inclined her head in the direction of the stairs.

“Haven’t seen him sir. And, well, he doesn’t exactly keep regular hours, so I’m afraid I can’t help you.” 

She had the look of a woman who’d been woken a great many nights by the sound of heavy boots clomping up the stairs at an indecent hour. 

“I’ll just go check, then, shall I?” Uccello offered, sliding off of his horse and tying her under the arch of a section of aqueduct, where she would have shade (and weeds to munch, he noted, watching her immediately stretch her head toward the opportunistic plants growing between the bricks). She was a bit of a spoiled horse but as her glossy coat gleamed in the dawn light, he had to be proud of her. Would he perhaps allow Reni to ride her as they went together towards the basilica? While it was true that Uccello, being of higher social status, should be the one to ride (never mind that it was /his/ horse) he had thought on occasion before that Reni and Finale would make a striking picture together. Besides which, if Uccello had his way, Reni would spend all day on his feet, atop a ladder, so it would perhaps be a comfort to start the day without having walked halfway across Rome. The landlady stood aside for him as he made his way into the entry hall, and he felt her eyes follow him as he proceeded up the stairs.

He was surprised to find that the stack of letters in the hall had been cleared, and wondered if Reni had actually read any of them, or if he’d simply pitched them into a fire. He laughed a bit to himself and knocked on Reni’s door. 

No answer.

That wasn’t altogether surprising. It was just past dawn, and he’d surprised the man asleep before. He knocked again, a bit louder, conscious of the landlady scrubbing the tiles of the hall, probably listening to him being ignored. Another few moments passed in silence, aside from the rhythmic sound of the scrub brush working at the floor below. Uccello tried just one more time, but when that, too, proved fruitless, he had to accept defeat. As he passed the landlady on his way out, he asked her to inform Master Reni that he’d visited, should she see him. Beyond that, though, all he could do was fetch his horse and tell the bishop that, despite what he’d said in his letter, he wouldn’t be able to introduce him to the artist as promised. 

It did not reflect particularly well on Uccello himself, he knew. It showed an unflattering lack of control over a man in his employ. But, he thought, as he pulled Finale away from the green shoots she’d been nibbling, he’d have the whole ride over to the basilica to think about what he would say to the bishop. 

The sun had already begun to warm the streets as he made his way west again. He kept to the shade as much as possible, but sometimes there was nothing to do but ride with the light at his back, making his layers of clothing stick to him as he meditated upon this wasted journey. Had he been foolish to assume Reni would be at home at dawn? The man had never mentioned other clients, but, who else but Uccello would call upon him at first light? Perhaps he was out carousing, causing trouble until the wee hours. Perhaps he had a lady companion. 

Uccello frowned at himself. The idea of Reni seeking pleasurable company, or perhaps even having a romance Uccello didn’t know about, had forced a string of lurid images to mind. Reni’s back, bare and sweat slick, muscles flexing with amorous ardor... Uccello shook his head to clear the lewd ideas. It wasn’t his business what Reni did with his personal time. It was just, he himself was uncomfortably sweat-slick, and he had simply been distracted. The Almighty would have to forgive him for even thinking about it. 

Arriving at the basilica was a relief, for himself and Finale both. By the time he arrived there, the streets were already choked with traffic, and Finale had begun tossing her head in agitation. Her ears were pressed back, annoyed by the rattle of carts, the shouts between windows, even the clack of her own hooves against the cobblestones. It was considerably quieter in the square before the basilica, the hush of the church spreading out from the doors as the two of them drew near. Uccello led Finale to a trough and tied her, dismounted neatly to give her a calming pat on the neck. She ignored him in favor of cool water, but he didn’t take it personally. He walked with purpose into the vaulted hall of the basilica, grateful for the darkness and the cool comfort within. 

There were a few worshipers, sat in the pews, heads bent over their rosaries. A mother and child stood to the side of the altar, lighting candles for their prayers. For a moment, Uccello allowed himself to be taken by the quiet whispers of the devoted and the penitent as they echoed into the apse, allowed his eyes to drift skyward, following the voices, to view again the magnificent setting he’d chosen for Reni’s great work. The innumerable tesserae that formed the centuries-old mosaics overhead glittered with the light of many candles. Sparkling blue and luminous gold, a rondel filled with stars, a richly patterned throne attended by a choir of angels... these surrounded the Holy Virgin and Christ. The Mother of God sat crowned in this central design, and her eyes stared fixedly out into the church, watching over its congregants. It was too high up to see every detail clearly, but her eyes, the upturned gesture of her delicate hands, her small, humble smile seemed... knowing, and forgiving. True, the Blessed Virgin should have these qualities, as protector of the people, but Uccello thought it was more /human/ than that. It was the expression of a mother whose child had gotten into some mild mischief, but she could only laugh. Surely the artist did not mean to implicate Jesus Christ with that look, but, perhaps as all were children of the Almighty, so too all could be loved and forgiven in Holy Mary’s grace. All around him, worshipful voices repeated the words of the Ave Maria, and individual phrases floated to him, out of order: “blessed art thou amongst women... Hail Mary full of Grace... Holy Mary, Mother of God... full of grace... pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.” He crossed himself, and finally lowered his eyes from her watchful gaze. To his left, the bishop stood, awkwardly waiting to be noticed. Uccello nodded to him, and they moved from the chancel towards the chapel Uccello had claimed. 

A canvas had been tacked up, and the gate closed. 

“Your eminence,” Bishop Rossini hissed, voice low to avoid disturbing those praying in the pews, “I must say I... didn’t expect your artist so early.”

“He’s here already?” Uccello realized as soon as he’d said it that it was showing his hand, but what could he do? 

“Er, yes, he... woke me from my bed well before dawn and said he wanted to make the most of the daylight. I unlocked the doors for him,” the bishop gestured to the heavy doors that ornamented the entry to the basilica, “and then he strode in there, nailed up that cloth,” he waved with quick, distressed motions at the paint-splattered curtain Reni had installed, “then ducked out here again to take six of the tall candle holders, and ten large candles from the apse.” He wrung his hands. “I... didn’t know what to say.”

Uccello dug his nails into his palms. 

“He’s... very single-minded. I’m sorry he disturbed your sleep. I promise you’ll get your candlesticks back.”

With that, he pulled open the gate, and pushed past Reni’s curtain. 

There Reni was, up on his ladder again, stripped to the waist as he pounded a cloth bag full of charcoal dust over the lines of the cartoon. Doubtless, he’d pricked tiny holes all along each line, and he was now transferring the lines onto the wall through this laborious practice. He was coated in charcoal up to the elbows, sweaty from exertion, golden shafts of light hitting him from the eastern window. Around him stood six wrought iron candlesticks, each one nearly as tall as a man, with thick tallow candles lighting the paper in a warm glow. He looked... not dissimilar from the uncalled for images that had sprung to mind earlier, as Uccello wondered where Reni was. 

He cleared his throat and Reni turned, gave him a rueful smile. 

“Ah. There you are,” Reni said. 

Uccello huffed. “I went to your apartment, but you weren’t there. You were here before dawn, I hear?” 

Reni pushed his disheveled hair off of his forehead, leaving a smudge of charcoal behind. “This is rather slow going. I’d hoped to be done with the transfer by now, but this wall does not want to take the charcoal. I can’t mess around with the cartoon though— it will throw off my lines.”

Stepping closer, Uccello could see the small pinpricks following every curve of the drawing. Bathsheba’s face was different again, looking down at the viewer like the Blessed Virgin did in the apse behind them. There was some trouble about the mouth, though, something grim and resigned. She would not be able to refuse a king, even if she wanted to. Uccello frowned, worried about what that would say to a viewer, and stepped to the other side. From that angle, the expression changed. Viewed from the left, it was like Bathsheba was trying to hide a smile, a coy look buried beneath her frown. Perhaps it was a trick of the light. 

“I can’t imagine making those thousands of pin holes was a quick and easy process,” Uccello noted. How had Reni managed to do it in so short a time? 

“I’ve done little else since last we met,” Reni replied. Were those smears of charcoal under his eyes, or dark circles? 

“Burning the midnight oil, as it were?” Uccello said, breezily. “Speaking of, the bishop will want his candlesticks back in the apse before evening mass.” 

Reni grunted, wiping his hands rather uselessly on his trousers. They were black too, at least. He began climbing down from the ladder, rummaging in an untidy pile of his personal effects to find a leather water bag with a shoulder strap. He pulled the cork with his teeth and drank deeply, the clicks of his throat audible in the echoing chapel. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t gotten sick yet, drinking all that water. I know you’re... reclaiming it, from the aqueduct, but, that travels such a long distance, in ancient pipes...” He grimaced, and Reni wet a rag to mop at his face, his neck, his chest. 

“People stomp grapes for wine with their /feet/, after crossing a muddy, manure-strewn vineyard,” Reni protested. “How is that better?” 

Without thinking, Uccello took the rag from Reni’s hands, braced one hand on Reni’s bare shoulder and with the rag in the other, began scrubbing charcoal off Reni’s face. The rag quickly turned grey, Reni having been coated in a fine dust of charcoal. His hair would need a thorough washing, too, no doubt. 

“Your hands are so filthy you were just making it worse,” Uccello snipped. “Close your eyes.” Sure enough, there were lines of compacted charcoal in the folds of his eyelids. Uccello doubled the rag over to find a clean area to use. “Now don’t move, I’m going to clean your eyelids.”

Reni didn’t say anything. He barely breathed, standing absolutely still as Uccello swiped the damp cloth gently over his eyelids until the black lines were gone. When Uccello pulled his hand away, Reni opened his eyes, stared Uccello down with his customary intensity. 

“I still have more to do, you know,” he said, though he didn’t move away. “I’m only going to get dirty again.” 

Uccello didn’t want to be the first to move either. “Well, I suppose now you’re... a blank canvas again.” 

Reni huffed a small laugh. He raised a hand, almost touched Uccello’s jaw, but then thought better of it. Despite the fact that Reni’s hands were filthy, Uccello leaned into it, felt deprived of that incomplete action. 

The second Reni’s fingers connected with his face, he ought to have flinched away. He’d surely have charcoal smudges all down his cheek, letting Reni’s fingers trail down his jaw like that. But, it took a few moments too long for him to move, to correct his posture, and then to bring the rag he’d been using on Reni to his own face. As he scrubbed blindly, he stared at the floor. Why had he done that? Why had he felt like it was necessary for him to complete Reni’s aborted motion? Reni’s fingers had been rough, gritty with charcoal dust, and very warm, but rather than think on that, on the tactile experience of it, he fixated on Reni’s boots in front of him. Reni still hadn’t moved. Uccello scrubbed his cheek raw, but kept his eyes on the tiles beneath their feet, until finally, Reni shuffled back half a step.

“I should get back to work,” Reni said, but he stayed where he was, probably waiting for Uccello to say or do something. Uccello forced his eyes up, refusing to act like a shame-faced child any longer, and brazenly met Reni’s curious gaze. Straightening to his full height, Uccello offered no explanation, no excuse, and so Reni merely nodded at him, once, before turning his back on him and retreating up the ladder. Uccello cleared his throat, hesitated only a second, and then ducked out the way he’d come, and closed the gate behind him. It wasn’t until he was untying Finale outside that he realized he was still carrying Reni’s rag. He stuffed it into his pocket and heaved himself up on Finale’s back. The sun was at its highest, and he wanted nothing more than to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit long. Up next, the conclave! Politics, passion, and the position of pontiff!


	9. Christ on the Mount of Olives

Uccello had seen popes die before, but he hadn’t been a cardinal then. It seemed that every time he turned around, another messenger arrived with a summons to something or other, an apparently endless parade of liturgical rites, before the pope could be interred. 

Early in the proceedings was the reading of the papal testament; the last will of the man, amended by dictation as the pope lay dying in his palace. It was the duty of the camerlengo to read the document in the presence of the cardinalate, and he struggled with it somewhat, even familiar as he must have been with the deceased pope’s handwriting. It opened with a poetic meditation on death, on the impermanence of life, the light of Christ a beacon in the darkness, and a quote from Genesis. It then went on to give personal thanks to the pope’s secretary, his close friends and helpers, and those “who have given much and asked for nothing.” Uccello struggled to control the twitches of his face as the will spoke of poverty, and how Christlike it was to have come from little and to have lived in poverty through life, for the material effects of the papal office, the pope claimed, were not his, but the property of the people, and only on loan to him throughout his brief stay upon the earth. Uccello grit his teeth, and reminded himself not to impugn the dead... particularly a dead pope. 

The next segment to be read contained some very vague statements about funerary arrangements, suggesting St. Peter’s “if it is available”, and making mention of a work of art by his favorite sculptor to be placed overtop of the grave, in service of the Almighty and the inspiration of the penitent. Obviously, that clarification needed to be made, else somebody might get the wrong idea about whom, precisely, the work was made to glorify.

Finally, the camerlengo came to the section which had been added most recently, and, he repeated, had been written in the hand of the pope’s secretary, as His Holiness spoke his thoughts and wishes aloud. The camerlengo fiddled with his spectacles as he silently read and reread the paragraph. Somebody in the crowd of cardinals cleared his throat. The camerlengo jumped a bit, and resumed reading aloud:

“As for those things I have considered my own possessions, and which I have used daily, please distribute them as they are needed, excepting the following items: to my secretary...” 

The will listed a few sundry items to go to the pope’s closest confidantes; some books, a China set, a particular ring. The last item on the list, though, was something of a surprise.

“To Cardinal Armando Uccello,” the camerlengo read, causing Uccello to sit up in shock, “the last cardinal I created before feeling the hand of God on my shoulder, calling me from this life, I leave my silver coronation medallion, minted when I was elected to the Holy See.” Uccello felt eyes land upon him from all around, chose to ignore them and keep his gaze trained on the camerlengo as he flipped through the pages upon his lectern. “Let it be remembered,” the camerlengo read on, “that to be pope is to be a servant of God and His people, and each one of us is a brother to the others in that pact. When I die, it will be from this same confraternity that my successor is chosen, and each one of you has it within him to be blessed with the trust of his fellows required for this office. I offer my humble gratitude that you have so trusted me. I extend to you my trust that you will select from your numbers the best candidate to represent the Church, Rome, and each other.”

Uccello couldn’t believe it. Why leave the coronation medallion to him? The last words of his testament suggested that His Holiness believed any one of the cardinals there present could become pope, even Uccello himself. Surely that’s what was implied by singling him out thusly. Had the deceased pope known of the dissent within the cardinalate, the numbers among them who disputed Uccello’s right to sit beside them as a brother? Was it merely that he resented the College questioning his decisions, or was this truly a last act of kindness? 

Even when he was called to the papal palace the next day, and he felt the heavy, solid weight of the commemorative medallion in his hand, he found it very hard to process. He couldn’t guess what the other cardinals thought. His best bet was to try to find Rodriguez within the coming days, and get him to talk about it. Insatiable gossip that he was, if anyone knew what the other cardinals were saying to one another, it would be Rodriguez. 

Standing alone in the plaza before the Quirinale palace, in view of Sforza’s palazzo, Uccello considered the medallion again. It the was the nearly white color of pure silver, with the pope in profile on its face, a knowing smile on his lips. 

Leading up to the pope’s funeral, Uccello had little time to catch Rodriguez alone, though he saw the whole of the cardinalate often enough. There were several new observances of Mass, and the Rite of Visitation where nobles and even royals came to pay their respects. Uccello thought he’d seen the former pontiff more times since he died than he had in all the time since he was created cardinal. He was even growing to know the Swiss Guard by face, if not by name, as they stood resolute while the camerlengo passed a thurible over the body three times, and as the gathered congregation chanted blessings, in Latin and in Greek, and as voices rose to sing the litany of the saints. It went on and on. The Papal Chamberlain led a group of pallbearers to parade the body on an olivewood bed. The body was incensed again. Prayers and gospels were recited, blessings spoken. There was the /official/ visitation of the cardinals, and the lighting of the paschal candle. The days began to wear on everyone.

For one thing, the hot weather did not abate, and even with the candles and the incense, the pope’s body cavity stuffed with herbs, his veins injected with fragrant oils and his skin coated in wax... the heat was beginning to take its toll. His Swiss Guard began standing further and further back from the body. The situation was not helped by the many layers those in attendance were required to wear, and Uccello began to feel like a boiled turnip: pale, and limp, and damp. 

Worse, he could not concentrate on these sacred processes, even if it weren’t for the infernal heat. More and more often, he found himself digging his nails into the arm of his chair, wondering how Reni was getting on with his fresco. How much had he done already? Had he worked out whatever his problem with Bathsheba was? Was he having any issues? What about the bishop, and visitors to the basilica? Were they leaving Reni well enough alone? 

Uccello came into the recitation of a gospel a few beats late, distracted, and Thiebaud, nearby, noticed it, inclined his head at Uccello curiously. He turned away again when Uccello found the rhythm again, blended in with the crowd. It was meaningless, but it did bother him that someone had heard him falter. He did his best to concentrate for the remainder of the ceremony. 

It was already past nightfall when the last prayers had been said and the cardinals were dismissed to file out of the basilica at last. In the morning, the pope would be interred beneath the very floors of St. Peter’s, and the conclave would finally begin. 

Uccello hung back a moment while the other cardinals got to their horses and carriages, waiting until the majority of them had left before swinging himself into Finale’s saddle. He’d decided he wasn’t going home immediately. 

The night air was significantly cooler than the day, and Uccello could see by the way Finale held her head up that she’d appreciated traveling at dawn and after dusk these last few days. That was for the best, because they had a fair distance to go. 

He kept to the more well-traveled streets, for the availability of light. If it was only the palazzos that would have cressets installed to shed light on the street below, then Uccello’s route was essentially planned for him. It was not the fastest or most direct, however, and Uccello knew the following day would be grueling. 

The basilica was dark when he arrived besides the weak light of a few remaining prayer candles. Still, when he knocked at the clergy house, the bishop was awake. Though Bishop Rossini was a little hesitant about unlocking the side door into the basilica, directly connected to the clergy house, he did so, noting that he hadn’t yet seen Reni leave. 

“Did he return your candle holders?” Uccello asked, assuming the man’s caginess was due to an encounter with the mercurial artist.

“E-eventually,” Rossini mumbled. “He rather startled a junior priest, pounding on this door here and then just thrusting the candle holders at him. The resulting crash interrupted evening mass fairly spectacularly... but we did get them back.” 

Uccello chuckled quietly. He could just about picture it, the way Reni would storm about like he owned the place, even in one of the most important churches in the world. What must Rossini think, having to liaise not only with a cardinal who knew his worst secrets, but also this thundercloud of a man who was to spend weeks in the chapel, painting a fresco. Further, Uccello doubted Reni had allowed the bishop in to even see the subject. The poor man must have been out of his wits with nerves, Uccello thought, watching Rossini struggle with the heavy keys. Finally, the door was unlocked, and Uccello bade Rossini a good night, assured him he could find his own way to the chapel. Rossini passed him a chamberstick candle holder, lit the candle for him, and gratefully closed the door behind him.

Walking alone through the darkened hallway, keeping his paces slow so as not to extinguish the candle, Uccello hoped he’d be able to see whatever Reni had done. The light of a single flame was barely enough to light the tiles beneath his feet. He shoved his free hand into his pocket, annoyed with how long it was taking to travel through the basilica, and found Reni’s rag still there. He paused in the hall. Why was he still carrying around that filthy thing? Drawing it out of his pocket and holding it up to the light, he could see the black smudges where he’d cleaned Reni’s face. Should he have it washed before returning it? He brought it up to his nose for a sniff, just to determine how dirty it was. 

It had that linseed oil smell that clung to Reni’s skin. Uccello guessed that the chalk and charcoal dried the artist’s hands out, and that he dabbed a bit of his painting medium onto them so they wouldn’t crack and bleed. Perhaps that was also what gave Reni’s hair its shine. He could picture Reni running his hands through his hair with a little oil, to keep it off of his face, or else, just doing so out of frustration, pacing in his small room. He’d never liked the flavor of linseed, and now, he’d never be able to associate the smell of it with anything else. It would always be linked to Reni. 

Realizing he was standing in a hallway sniffing a kerchief like a lovesick soldier with the token of his betrothed, Uccello stuffed the rag back in his pocket again. He was letting the candle burn down, and silently chastised himself for wasting time. At this rate, Montreux would be already abed by the time he got home, and the hearth, and whatever supper Uccello was delaying for this, would be cold. 

Still he felt compelled to check on Reni’s progress. It was for the best that he was doing so at this late hour, really, as the last time he’d left the artist’s company had been, suffice to say, a little awkward. And, with the conclave finally convening in the morning, he had little time to deal with that. He’d have less time, still, to visit and view the work, while the conclave met. At last, he located the gated entry to the chapel, quietly pushed the gate open, and ducked under the canvas curtain which divided the room from the rest of the basilica. He held the candle aloft but it wasn’t entirely necessary. Reni had constructed a scaffold, and all around the edges of the platform were wide candles, casting the room in a warm glow. At the center of the platform was Reni, his back up against the wall, his feet dangling off the edge of the plank. He appeared to be asleep. 

Uccello wanted to laugh. He looked like an overgrown cat, lying there stretched out, asleep in such an odd position. Surely he’d ache in the morning if he slept like that? He hadn’t been harmed by sleeping on Uccello’s rug, but this was another level. Should he perhaps clear his throat and wake him, prompting him to go home, or at least find a more appropriate place to sleep? 

He took half a step closer. In the faint glimmer of candlelight, he could see where the wall was a bit shinier, the fresco still wet. It was at the top of the wall, fairly dark, and Uccello can’t make out details, but it seemed Reni had begun painting in the negative space above Bathsheba’s head, setting up the room in which the drama of David spying upon her would occur. Though Uccello couldn’t quite see it, it seemed as though Reni had gotten a lot done. How many hours had the artist devoted to this alone? Uccello’s days had run together with how many times he’d been to St. Peter’s. He hardly knew when he’d last spoken to Reni. In any case, Reni looked exhausted, sleeping upright like that. Sighing, Uccello turned on his heel to make his way out to the nave again, where he could rifle around to find a candle snuffer. 

He didn’t much like climbing the ladder in his cassock, but with so many candles left burning he had little choice. Knelt on the scaffold beside Reni, Uccello was overly cautious in trimming each wick, not only to avoid burning the building to the ground, but because he didn’t want to wake Reni. As each candle was extinguished, the shadows on the man’s face deepened, so the greasy dark circles under his eyes looked haunted and sickly. Had Reni been sleeping here every night? Why hadn’t he brought a bedroll? Uccello watched the steady rise and fall of Reni’s chest, smelled his warm sleep sweat. He still had that rag in his pocket. Rather than drawing attention by returning it, he retreated down the ladder as gently as possible, and made his way out of the chapel, his lone candle lighting his slow progress. 

The journey had not been particularly fruitful, Uccello decided as he untied Finale. At least he knew Reni was hard at work, but he could hardly see that work in the near darkness. Of course that made sense; he didn’t know why he’d come, couldn’t believe he’d wasted time on that. He hurried Finale back to her stable, perhaps a little faster than he ordinarily would, and woke the stable boy who was mainly there as a guard. The boy mumbled through taking Finale, seemed to sleepwalk through putting away her tack and giving her a quick brush down before forking some feed into her stall and letting her get to bed as well. The walk home was quiet, lit mainly by a watchful moon. 

As expected, his house was quiet and cool when he arrived, the fire doused long ago. Montreux had shut his door, but there was a plate on the kitchen table with a towel over it, waiting for Uccello. Beneath was a salad of lettuce, onion, and radicchio, artichoke and olive, beans, and small bait fish in oil. At least Uccello needn’t have worried about his dinner getting cold. He ate quietly, so the scraping of his plate wouldn’t wake Montreux. It was late, and his body was tired from the long ride, but something agitated Uccello, made him wary about the prospect of sleep. 

Likely, it was just nervousness about the impending conclave. This could decide everything. He knew it would be worse if he wasn’t well rested for it, but somehow, the idea of sleeping, of ending this day and allowing himself to be pulled into the next, filled him with an unnamable dread. It was a cowardly position. How long had Reni been asleep, when Uccello stole into the chapel? When would he rise, and begin work anew? First light, probably. He’d work from dawn ‘til dusk, and then, even later than that, pilfering the poor bishop’s candles to work until his arms ached from holding them aloft, from scraping the fresco into the wall, from holding his body just so, painting details into the wet plaster, unable to brace his arm against the wet wall. Uccello could imagine the look of intent concentration, furrowing Reni’s brow, pursing his lips. How many days would the conclave last, and how much of the painting could Reni complete in that time? Uccello would have to wait and see. 

At last, he could stand it no longer. He dropped his plate into the basin for later washing, and made his solemn way up to his bedchamber. Trudging up the stairs like Abraham climbing the mountain, he would have to face the task ahead of him as the Almighty saw fit. Stripped to his nightclothes he dipped his cloth into his bowl, washed briefly before his polished copper mirror. Gloomy as his mood was, it felt a bit like a funerary ritual. Something similar would have been done to the deceased pope some days ago, before he was anointed and perfumed with incense, the first of many times. And in the morning, the thurible would pass over him for the last time, and he’d be lowered into the ground, committed to his final rest. 

Uccello slipped across his rug, fell into bed, and stared up at the canopy. He knew he was being dramatic. Mama Solana would have chastised him for it. But, how could she understand the pressure, the idea that Uccello would, in some small part, be responsible for choosing the next Pope, the next head of the Church and mouthpiece for the Almighty? All other things aside (his future, his life as he knew it), that was an immense responsibility. True, the burden was borne across the backs of the cardinalate as a whole, but, what if they made the wrong decision? What if Sforza didn’t have as many friends as he and Uccello hoped? What would the coming days bring?

Uccello nodded off, and slept badly until the coming of the dawn. 

The funeral dragged on. To Uccello it seemed like more of the same, more of the countless prayers and hymns and anointings that had gone on for the past nine days. He tried to stand up straight, tried to blend in with the other cardinals, though it was clear he was not the only impatient one. Several times he saw Rodriguez pulling surreptitiously at his lace collar, as the heat of the day seeped into the building and grew stifling with the press of bodies waiting for the pope’s body to be lowered into its tomb. Uccello felt sweat rolling down the back of his neck and shuddered in distaste.

Finally, the casket was laid to rest, and a temporary cover placed over the tomb. Likely, some artist would arrive sometime in the near future, to cover the hole and put up a sculpture of some kind. Vaguely, Uccello wondered if the sculptor would be someone Reni knew, but he didn’t linger on the thought. It was not his concern, and besides, the college of cardinals was being beckoned en masse to flow like the Red Sea into the Sistine Chapel, to commence the conclave at last. 

They were a somber crowd, coming directly from the funeral, but they all knew what was to be done. In the grand chapel, beneath Michelangelo’s vast and commanding work, they began to take their seats. With eyes downcast, a small cadre of assistants darted about the room, placing water jugs and assuring that glasses and ballot cards were available for every chair. Then, they ducked out of the room swiftly, leaving the cardinalate in secrecy. 

Uccello looked about the room, judging alliances by who sat with whom. Some cardinals whom Uccello did not recognize, likely from other nations outside the Papal States, were waved over by their friends, to sit beside them. Cardinal Bishop Sforza sat at the upper right corner of the long table; Peretti sat nearly at the extreme opposite end. Fouquet occupied the only seat beside Sforza. 

The available seats began to fill as Uccello made his way around the table. There were so many cardinals; Uccello hadn’t really thought about how many lived abroad. Beside Rodriguez was the crown cardinal of Spain, there to represent the interests of his king. Both he and Rodriguez wore the ring of the Spanish royal family, and, indeed, may have been related, both to each other, and the crown. Uccello spent a moment locating Thiebaud, and finally spotted him pulling out a chair beside another French cardinal who stifled a yawn as he waited for the proceedings to get underway. Bianchi, nearby, made a minute gesture, which Uccello chose to interpret as calling him over. He moved deftly as possible to the chair beside Bianchi’s, before someone else filled it. Bianchi, though, only folded his hands in front of himself and watched the rest of the room settle. Uccello realized that, from his seat, he could see Sforza, but not Peretti. He wouldn’t be able to watch the man for his reactions. The French cardinal between Thiebaud and Uccello looked over. He made a short comment in a language Uccello did not recognize (it wasn’t Latin or French, and it certainly wasn’t Italian), and Uccello furrowed his brows at him. 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Uccello admitted.

“No?” the other cardinal replied in Italian, “I thought, with your hair and your nose, you could be a Breton.” 

His nose? Uccello had never considered his /nose/ to be anything unusual. As if he needed something else to set him apart from his peers! 

“No, I’m afraid I’ve never been even as far north as Florence,” Uccello replied. His father could have been a Breton. Or he could have been a direct descendant of Nero for all Uccello knew. It seemed, however, this Frenchman was unaware of Uccello’s low birth. 

“Ah well,” the other cardinal answered, unconcerned. “Shame we can’t count on your vote for France.” He smiled, and turned toward the sounds of the cries of “extra omnes!” from just outside the doors, assistants rather pointlessly ordering everyone besides the cardinals to leave. Then, as the late afternoon sun filtered in through the high arched windows, lots were drawn to select at random nine cardinals to officiate the conclave: three to collect the ballots, three to count them, and three to oversee the whole voting process. In this round, Uccello did not draw the short straw. He was thankful. He would not have relished the extra scrutiny he’d have been under. Peretti, however, became an overseer. At least, Uccello thought, he hadn’t been tasked with counting the votes, so he couldn’t doctor the numbers in his favor.

The ballot cards were distributed. He’d heard, probably from Sforza before Uccello was created a cardinal, that people often disguised their handwriting so the overseers and ballot-counters would be unable to tell who had voted for whom. Uccello wasn’t sure he’d be able. His penmanship, he knew, was inexpert, but perhaps, if others would be choosing to write in a false, unfamiliar hand, his own writing would be less distinctive. The camerlengo led a prayer, that the Lord would guide them, and then, quills went to inkwells, and the cavernous room was filled with the scratching of nibs against paper.

It took little time for most of the cardinals to submit their votes. As promised, Uccello wrote down his vote for Sforza without question. The three who had been appointed as ballot collectors, and the three who had been appointed to count the ballots, did their work as quickly as possible, while Peretti and the other two overseers looked on. The longer the crowd sat waiting, however, the more uncomfortable they became. 

The day’s heat poured into the room through the many windows. The doors were sealed for secrecy. The cardinalate shifted in their heavy garments. And worse still, they were required to keep a fire burning in the room, into which they would cast their ballots at the end of the vote. Black smoke would tell the people of Rome that they had not yet elected a new pope. When two thirds of the men in that chapel could agree would an additive be thrown on the fire, turning the smoke white, to tell the world that a new pope had been chosen. Only then could they leave the room and get some fresh air. At least, that’s how Uccello hoped it would go, pulling surreptitiously at the front of his cassock. If they remained deadlocked into the night, until they could no longer see the ballot papers before them, they would have to resume in the morning. Uccello hated the thought of this process getting even more drawn out. He hoped the other cardinals would see reason, and elect Sforza ‘by inspiration’— that is, almost unanimously. 

The ballot counters tabulated the numbers. They checked them again with two separate recounts. Uccello resisted the urge to drum his fingers on the long table. Sforza sat near the head of the table, watching with keen eyes as the pile of ballot cards was sorted over and over again. Fouquet, beside him, seemed vaguely amused by the whole affair. 

Finally, one of the ballot counters stood. He announced the results:

“Cardinal Priest Annibale Zampieri: nine votes. Cardinal Bishop Salvador Mendoza: twelve votes. Cardinal Priest Jean-Michel Desmarais: thirteen votes...”

Uccello did the math, and nearly sank in his chair. Even if the next candidate read out had received all the remaining votes, he still wouldn’t have enough to win the papacy. They’d have to do another ballot, regardless of whatever the ballot counter said next. 

“Cardinal Bishop Scipione Sforza: twenty-nine votes.”

Uccello waited, holding his breath. Had Peretti received the remaining thirty votes? Was he a more popular choice than Sforza?

“Cardinal Priest Edoardo Peretti: twenty-nine votes.”

Uccello’s eyebrows shot up. They were neck and neck!

“Cardinal Priest Jean-Pierre Fouquet, one vote.”

Fouquet actually laughed aloud, drawing all eyes to him. “No no, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh. It’s only, I’d like to thank whoever voted for me, is all.” He looked around the room, eyes bright and merry and unaffected by the heat and the tension.

The ballot collectors carried the stack of voting cards to the fire, and, with little regard, chucked them into the flames. Black smoke curled up the chimney as they burned. 

Votes were written, collected, and counted again. This time, Zampieri got no votes, Mendoza got seven, Demarais seven, Sforza thirty, Peretti twenty-nine again, and, shockingly, Fouquet jumped from one vote to twenty. The French crown cardinal straightened proudly to see that there were two French contenders, although one of them was falling rapidly behind. Uccello wondered if it was more important to him that a French cardinal took the papacy, or that a Spanish cardinal didn’t. Again the ballots were collected and burned. More black smoke. Another prayer. The light began to change as the afternoon wore on. 

Mendoza: three, Demarais: four, Sforza: thirty-three, Peretti: thirty-three, Fouquet: twenty again. Uccello had heard of a conclave a few centuries ago which had lasted three years. He pulled at his collar. Three hours already seemed too long. The ballots were burned again. 

Mendoza garnered just two votes in the next round, and Uccello could guess whose they were. The Spanish crown cardinal slammed his hand against the table, causing Rodriguez to jump and stare at him. The crown cardinal of France, across the table, made a dismissive gesture, and the crown cardinal from Spain made to stand, the scrape of his chair echoing in the large chapel. Rodriguez put a calming hand on his countryman’s arm, alarm in his eyes. 

“You must eventually face the facts,” the French crown cardinal stated. Uccello racked his brain to remember the man’s name. Beau-something. Beauchamp? Beaumont? Beauceron? 

“I can veto your candidates,” the Spanish crown cardinal hissed in return. “I can, and I will!” His long, narrow face pinched as he wheeled on the Portuguese cardinal to his right, then thrust his finger at a trio of Austrian cardinals. “Where is your loyalty?” he demanded. “How is Spain to be guided by an Austrian queen if her subjects desert us?” 

Uccello wanted to claw at his hair. What a ridiculous argument. It was clear Mendoza had no chance, and the Spanish crown cardinal’s state of denial was unbecoming. 

The Austrian cardinals made no immediate answer, but the French crown cardinal tutted aloud, as if the representative of the Spanish king was nothing but a wayward child. The Spanish crown cardinal flushed with rage, his ill-proportioned mouth pulling into a grimace. 

“Your Austrian queen cannot guide her own king,” the French crown cardinal observed, off-handedly. “No offense to your niece-cousin.”

The Spanish crown cardinal looked as if he might vault the table to strangle the Frenchman. Rodriguez murmured soothingly in Spanish, but the crown cardinal paid it no mind. Uccello and the remainder of the cardinals sat stunned as the Spaniard placed his palms on the table, leaned toward the French crown cardinal, and asked, “Just what do you imply?”

“Nothing, nothing,” the Frenchman insisted unconvincingly, “though it must be very convenient having such a, shall we say, close-knit family. You could invite your aunt, cousin, and sister out riding, and only need one horse.” 

The Spaniard lunged. Uccello couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The Spanish crown cardinal had climbed up on top of the table and came crashing down on the Frenchman, tackling him to the ground. An Austrian to the right, and a local cardinal priest to the left, shouted and moved to pull them apart. The blows flew. Rodriguez cried out, hands flapping impotently. The brawl rolled to the right and cardinals jumped from their chairs, scattering like startled birds. 

“Cease this! This is a house of God!” Peretti demanded, hurrying over, before he was punched squarely in the jaw and sent reeling. Part of Uccello was glad to have seen that, but he couldn’t relish it for too long. The fight was growing larger, as more men attempted to pull the combatants apart, or were struck and trampled, or for whatever reasons men may be drawn into a senseless conflict, joined in. The room jostled, red robes and lace surplices whirled, zucchettos toppled and were crushed underfoot. 

The fight closed around him, and though Uccello backed away, he was struck smartly across the mouth by an errant swinging hand. He was fed up. He grabbed the wrist of the man who’d hit him, intent upon telling him what an infantile /cretin/ he was being, but the other cardinal, a man Uccello knew to belong to the Congregation for the Inquisition, snatched his hand away.

“Get your filthy hands off me, you bastard whoreson!” he spat. 

Uccello’s fist connected with the man’s cheek with a satisfying smack. 

After that, the fight was a blur. In his early years, he’d been ganged up on by the village children, and later the street urchins of Rome, often enough to learn the value of a well-placed elbow to the kidney, a solid punch under the ribs, a kick to the back of the knee. He refused to be pinned down, to be subjugated by these so-called holy men, who treated him worse than a dog and spat on his name. He hardly knew whom he was fighting, only that no one else would attempt to cut him down. His head was spinning, his ears were ringing, and he could taste blood, but as he knocked the wind out of the last man who hit him, nothing mattered. His focus was bone-deep and absolute. The chapel doors flew open, and everyone stilled, froze where they were as if turned to pillars of salt. 

A small group of assistants stood staring. Uccello glanced around at the turmoil and disarray. Shame curdled his stomach— how could he have allowed himself to be drawn in to all this? He snatched his fallen biretta and zucchetto from the ground and shoved them onto his head, uncaring of his hair flopping into his face. He could feel a bruise forming around one of his eyes, and a split in his lip was sluggishly bleeding. 

“We... we thought the commotion meant you’d chosen a pope?” one of the assistants explained. He received no answer from the cardinals, and then, in the tense silence, he slowly closed the doors again. 

Without speaking to one another, the cardinals straightened their cassocks and inspected their vestments for tears. The afternoon light had begun to fade to evening. Uccello noticed how swollen Rodriguez was along the left side of his face. Bianchi’s nose was bleeding. Thiebaud stumbled into a chair, and began to make an attempt to reshape his crushed biretta. Uccello licked the sticky split in his own lip, and flared with anger. Sforza, it seemed, had ducked out of harm’s way and now approached the table with Fouquet behind him. 

“I suggest we end all this /nonsense/, and reconvene in the morning,” Sforza hissed coldly. The disgust was evident in his face. Uccello wanted to duck his head. “I trust this will be the last of such /completely inappropriate/ behavior.” 

With that, he strode smartly toward the chapel doors, and left the rest of the College alone with the knowledge of their actions. As if detesting the sight of one another, the whole group, those who had fought and those who had hidden behind toppled furniture, poured out of the basilica and into the streets. Thiebaud caught Uccello’s elbow before he could leave.

“Would you help me? It’s the French crown cardinal. He’s been knocked out of his wits, but I can’t get him up off the floor alone.” 

Uccello looked back at the disaster scene, framed by the Sistine chapel’s glorious frescoes. Laid out at the base of the altar wall, the French crown cardinal looked as if he could join the prone and contorted bodies of the Damned in the Last Judgement behind him. The figure of Christ looked down upon him, poised to make a final pronunciation as to salvation, or condemnation. Uccello bent at the man’s side, and with help from Thiebaud, began to heft the Frenchman towards the chapel doors. Once in the hall, Uccello directed Thiebaud to help him prop the man up on a bench, before finding one of the assistants. 

“See to it that he gets back to his lodgings,” he instructed, pressing some coins into the young man’s hand. He was not willing to put forward any further effort, and made to exit the basilica with long strides. He did not know where he was going, but at that moment, he wished only to be anywhere else in the world. 

Finale was hungry when he untied her, and she made it known by butting her head into his chest a few times. He made his way back to the stable as quickly as possible, avoiding people’s glances in the dying light, and let Finale fairly shove her whole face into a pile of feed when she got into her stall. The grooms would deal with her tack and her bath. He trudged home, aching and exhausted, and unsure how he would explain his appearance to Montreux. He hadn’t seen his reflection yet, but he was sure it was ghastly. 

When he walked in the door however, he noticed a familiar pair of black boots stood up against the wall. And, sitting in the kitchen like a sociable neighbor was Camilo Reni. 

He looked up from his mug with unconcealed shock. Uccello didn’t know where Montreux was, and was about to ask because he desperately wanted either tea or wine, as strong as possible in either case, when Reni clonked his mug down and scrambled past him into the next room, returning with a scrap of paper and a charcoal stick.

“Don’t move,” Reni said. Uccello furrowed his brows. “Don’t move a muscle. The light on your face is perfect.”

Too bone-tired to do anything else, Uccello stood in the doorway, and allowed himself to be scrutinized as Reni worked at sketching him (again). He would have thought Reni had drawn his face enough times, and did not understand why he wanted to draw him when he looked arguably his worst. Was he working on a battle scene for someone else, perhaps? 

After a number of minutes, Reni finally stood, sketch in hand, and moved to stand beside Uccello, shoulder to shoulder, to show him another image of his likeness. 

“Is that really what I look like?” Uccello asked, though he knew it was probably unflinchingly true-to-life. Reni had shaded under his bruised eye, which meant the color was already showing. He touched his own face, and winced. 

“What happened to you? You weren’t robbed, were you?” Reni led Uccello by the arm into the kitchen and coaxed him into a chair. 

“No. There was a disagreement in the conclave,” Uccello stated blandly. 

Reni tried to swallow a smirk but failed. “You got into a brawl... with the cardinalate?” 

“If it helps, I didn’t start it. Technically, the crown cardinals did, and they’re... well, they’re hardly /real/ cardinals anyway. They’re appointed by the royals of their respective countries, with or without ever having done service to the Church, and let me tell you it was OBVIOUS these were not holy men.” Uccello wished he could go to Pietra for some ice. It would probably numb his stinging face. 

“How did it come to blows?” 

As if reading Uccello’s mind, Reni uncorked a bottle of wine, poured a generous glass for Uccello. 

“I have no idea really, but I got pulled into it, and we fought like. Like children. Like /rats/. I think someone /bit/ Cardinal Deacon Finaldi but I don’t know who did it.” Why was he telling Reni this? It was humiliating that he’d even been involved. “Why are you here, by the way, and where’s Montreux?”

“He went to light a candle,” Reni explained. “That’s why I’m here. With the funeral today, your basilica was full of endless foot traffic. When I lost the light, I tried to sleep, but it was songs and prayers and children crying and more songs and hymns, echoing through the whole place. So I came here. It’s closer, and I can leave before first light to get back to work. I assumed it would be quieter, but. Now knowing you’re secretly a champion brawler, perhaps my assumption was wrong.” 

Uccello huffed a laugh into his wine glass. 

“Yes well,” he replied. “Round two is tomorrow morning. The fight broke out before we got around to selecting a new pope, you see.”

Reni nodded slowly. He looked at Uccello as if considering another drawing, but didn’t go for his charcoal and paper again. Instead he stood and moved carefully behind Uccello, as if he was making his way behind a spooked horse. 

“Here,” he said, reaching for Uccello’s zucchetto. Reni’s fingers brushed through his untidy hair before Uccello realized how filthy they probably were.

“Wait,” he said, fumbling Reni’s rag out of his pocket, “before you touch my hat.” He offered the rag. Reni took it, and stared at it for a moment. 

“Is this mine?”

“Yes, I’d been meaning to return it.”

“But why do you have it?”

Uccello didn’t understand why it was so important. Surely it was just a rag? “The other day, when I helped you clean the charcoal from your face, I slipped it into my pocket without thinking about it. I’ve been carrying it around with the intent to return it when next I saw you.”

“Hmm,” Reni murmured, but he cleaned his fingers, then carefully removed Uccello’s zucchetto, and placed it on the table. His hands returned, though, combed Uccello’s hair off his forehead, attempted to smooth it back into some semblance of the style Uccello usually kept it in. It was probably a lost cause, but the sensation of Reni’s fingers slating across his scalp, threading through his hair, was still very relaxing. He allowed his eyes to shut. 

“Are you fixing my hair for your next portrait?” he asked, tipping his head back into Reni’s palms. 

“Mm, no,” Reni replied. He didn’t explain himself, and Uccello was too tired to pursue it. It hurt to talk, his split lip pulling. The wine stung, but he drank it anyway. Reni’s hands slipped lower, to Uccello’s shoulders, began to knead the stress tension from between them. “Boxers get a sportsman’s massage,” he explained, teasingly. Uccello chuckled, hissed when Reni’s thumbs dug into sore spots. 

It seemed Reni was a very tactile person. He touched Uccello in some way rather frequently, and Uccello had to assume it was something to do with his vocation as an artist, learning the shape of things and describing them with his hands. Uccello tolled his head to the side, allowed better access to a tight knot of muscle at the base of his neck. Reni’s fingers dipped under the collar of Uccello’s surplice, but couldn’t get very far with that and the mozzetta in the way. 

“Could you unfasten this?” he asked, tugging on the heavy fabric. Uccello’s bruised fingers lifted to his throat without thinking. What did it matter, Reni had seen him in his dressing gown. He unbuttoned the mozzetta and the surplice, then the cassock beneath for good measure. Reni’s fingertips were very warm as they trailed soothingly down Uccello’s neck. 

“I’m surprised you’re allowing this,” Reni admitted. “When first we met, you seemed certain I would run you through with a sword.”

“Hmm, you did rather give off that impression,” Uccello noted. 

“And now?” Reni urged. 

“You may yet,” Uccello sighed. “If you’re going to, perhaps you should do it now, and save me the trouble of going back to that horrible conclave tomorrow.” 

At that, Reni’s hands wrapped around his throat. He squeezed, and Uccello’s eyes snapped open, heart suddenly thundering. Reni increased the pressure for just another moment, and then let go. 

“No, I think not,” he said, smirking. “You still owe me half of my fee.” 

He moved away, and Uccello rubbed his throat, though it hadn’t really hurt. His heart still pounded in his chest, though he knew he was not in real danger. Reni returned to his seat opposite Uccello at the table. 

“I think I should have liked to see you, brawling with the other cardinals,” he said, taking up his cup again.

Uccello snorted. “Try that again, and perhaps you’ll experience it first-hand,” Uccello shot back, his palm still laid over the place where Reni had pressed down to cut off his air flow.

Reni only quirked his brows over the rim of his mug. Uccello could tell he was laughing, but he let it lie. He wasn’t really angry. He was merely... riled up from the events of the day. He gulped more wine, to calm his nerves. 

They sat this way for quite some time, each watching the other, and let the embers in the hearth burn into ashes.


	10. The Denial of Saint Peter (Part 1)

Montreux had not yet arrived by the time bells began to toll, signaling the call to the Paschal Vigil. Even as worn out as Uccello felt, as achy and embarrassed, he knew he had to attend. He straightened his clothing, and rose. There would be no sleep yet, for it was Easter Sunday, and the end of the Lenten fast. 

Reni glared out the window into the darkness. “I’d forgotten it’s Easter,” he mumbled. 

Uccello almost had as well, with everything else. He couldn’t believe he’d gotten into a brawl on Holy Saturday— in the basilica! Practically atop the grave of one of the Saint Peter, one of Christ’s own apostles! He felt as though it was even more important for him to attend Mass, following that lapse in control and judgement, and hoped that, by the dim light of the Paschal candle, Bishop Rossini wouldn’t be able to see Uccello’s bruises. 

“Will you go to our basilica, then?” Reni asked, and Uccello laughed a little at the thought of Santa Maria Maggiore being ‘their’ basilica. 

“It is a ways to travel, as you know, but really, I should,” he answered. “It’s the station church for Easter, you know.”

“I’ll accompany you,” Reni answered. “We can be there before they finish the Service of Light.”

“We can but pray,” Uccello replied. 

At the door, Reni stomped his way into his boots. 

“Leave your sword here, will you?” Uccello pleaded. Reni paused, his hand on the hilt as it’ll it were second nature. Regretfully, he placed it down again, leaning it into the corner by the door. 

“That means I’ll have to come back for it,” Reni pointed out, combing a hand through his hair. “I’d thought, if we were to attend Mass at the basilica, I could proceed directly from the Eucharist to my scaffold.”

Uccello scoffed, finding a lantern by the door and lighting it quickly. “Do you do better work without sleep?”

Reni said nothing, which was answer enough. 

Through the streets of Rome they walked, passing families with sleepy-eyed children drawn from their beds, wealthy people in their carriages riding to churches where they’d have pride of place, even secretive prostitutes, dressed demurely for the solemnest observance of the liturgical year. One girl made eye contact with him, as she passed, before her eyes landed on Reni and she quickened her pace. 

“I think she recognized you,” Uccello teased.

“I must have painted her as a martyr. Those poses are always the hardest to hold.”

Bishop Rossini was at the door when they arrived, and he ducked his head nervously as he always seemed to do when Uccello approached. 

“Your Eminence,” he greeted, before nodding in turn to Reni. “Master Reni, aha, I hadn’t heard you leave, I thought you were still in the chapel.” 

Reni affected half a shrug, face impassive, and the bishop quailed a little, clearly regretting having tried to make conversation. He beckoned them inside, and they took a place at the back. 

“You’re a cardinal,” Reni noted, a bit pointlessly, “oughtn’t you be at the front?” 

Self-consciously, Uccello touched his cheek where it was still sore. He didn’t much want to go before the assembly looking like a common /hooligan/, and sit nearer to the apse where the most candles would be burning brightly. 

“That’s unnecessary,” he said, and he thought he heard Reni huff a laugh. Soon though, the doors were closed, Paschal candle was blessed and lit, and the service began. 

The candle was carried around the nave, the words “Lumen Christi” echoing in the darkness, and Uccello replied in unison with the assembly, “Deo Gratias”. As these thanks were given unto the Lord, more candles around the nave were lit, symbolizing the light of Christ spreading through the church and into those who worshiped there. It was then, as the walls were bathed in flickering gold, that Uccello noticed a familiar flash of scarlet some rows ahead of him and across the aisle. There was another cardinal in attendance. 

On its face, this was not unusual; Santa Maria Maggiore was one of the seven papal basilicas, the most important churches in all Christendom. It was only that Uccello had rarely seen other cardinals there (he had suspected they were avoiding him, specifically), other than Sforza... and the other cardinal was not tall enough to be him. The light was too dim to make out much, and Uccello wondered what the other cardinal meant by coming to Santa Maria Maggiore specifically. Most people had their chosen churches already, and had another cardinal chosen this one, surely he would have— 

The bishop’s deacon approached the altar, and Uccello’s attention was forced back to the service as the Exultet began, and he had to concentrate on the lengthy Praeconium Paschale and respond at the appropriate times. Then, the Liturgy of the Word, readings from Genesis and Exodus, followed each time by a psalm. Uccello sat, and focused upon the words, and attempted to understand the afternoon’s events in context. 

If the Almighty hardened the heart of Pharaoh when the Israelites were at Pihahiroth, so that Moses could part the Red Sea and prove to the Egyptians that the Lord was with him, would He not test the cardinals of His universal church by sowing discord among them? Was it wrong to think of it thus? Uccello prayed. He asked for guidance when the conclave reconvened. He could not help but think, if the events of the first meeting of the conclave had been a test by the Lord, that he, and indeed the majority of the cardinalate, had failed. 

As if in answer to his thoughts, the room brightened as the altar candles were lit. Like divine forgiveness, the light filled the space, the golden ceiling glittering, reflecting the candlelight onto the faces of the devoted assembly, painting each man, woman, and child as an angel, or a saint. Uccello looked to Reni at his side, saw the gold blazing in his eyes, and listened as Reni joined in with the Gloria in Excelsis Deo, in a rather pleasant baritone. Uccello sang as well, feeling in his bones the words of thanks to the Almighty for His mercy. The Epistle to the Romans, and the one hundred and eighteenth psalm followed, each one confirming that freedom is found through the Lord, and then the assembly sung Alleluia for the first time since the beginning of Lent, and Uccello lifted his voice into it. The Gospel of the Resurrection and the homily spoke of rebirth, and second chances. Reni leaned forward, seemed to pay extra attention as the sermon spoke of casting off sins of the past to be new-made. Uccello remembered Reni’s chosen name, and smiled. 

There were a few baptisms and confirmations, and then, at last, the Eucharist. Uccello and Reni waited to receive the bread and the wine, Reni standing hardly a pace behind him as the queue of communicants shuffled toward the altar. He knelt, and Bishop Rossini placed the bread on his tongue, and offered him a sip of wine. As Uccello stood, Reni knelt, and received the bread and the wine as well, and Uccello felt the significance of breaking bread with him and with the whole of this community, sharing the same Blessed Sacrament as did all of Christ’s apostles at the Last Supper. 

It was not yet dawn as the final prayers were said, and the assembly filed out of the basilica. Reni set off immediately in the direction of Uccello’s home, but Uccello caught his sleeve. 

“Wait just a moment,” Uccello said quietly, and Reni stalled, standing beside him in the darkened square.

“You have something to say to the bishop?” Reni asked, resentful, perhaps, of how long he would need to wait if that were the case.

“No, not him. Ah, there—!” He hurried across the square when, in the glow of the basilica’s open doors, he caught sight of the other cardinal. To his surprise, it was Thiebaud, of his own congresso. “Venerable Brother,” Uccello greeted, as he and Reni drew near.

Thiebaud looked up at them, and his face was ashen. Or, perhaps that was just the effect given by the vivid bruising all along his left cheek and jaw. His left eye was swollen nearly shut, and his lip, too, showed a split in it. He hadn’t looked so bad at the end of the fight, but in the hours since, the bruising had developed into something grisly and garish. 

Uccello indicated his own bruising. “I see you didn’t escape unscathed, either,” he noted, and Thiebaud slumped like someone had let all the air out of him. It was an uncommon look for the usually poised cardinal. 

“I can’t believe it, I just /can’t/ believe it,” Thiebaud said, wringing his hands. His knuckles were scuffed and scabbed. “It was a truly barbaric display. Here it is Easter, and we are meant to go back into that room with those /animals/ again? Oh,” he seemed to notice Reni all of a sudden. “My apologies.” Worry creased his brow, and Uccello made an introductory gesture. 

“This is Camilo Reni. I have it on good authority that he is the most gifted painter alive in Rome today, and he is doing a fresco for me here at the basilica.” 

Reni gawped at him, but then seemed to remember himself and gave a stilted bow. 

“Master Reni, this is Cardinal Priest Josue Thiebaud. He belongs to my congregation at the Curia,” Uccello went on, and Thiebaud gave Reni a solemn nod. It was a little funny, Thiebaud’s youthful face, and the fact that he was a head shorter than Reni, made him look like an especially serious teenager when placed opposite a man of Reni’s stature. 

“I hadn’t seen you here before,” Uccello explained. “I’m not sure where you usually go to Mass. do you live in this area? I can’t remember.”

“No, I... well. One of the cardinals who did /this/ to my face attends my church, so I thought I’d attend a different Paschal vigil.” He gestured vigorously to the bruising. “Obviously, after an absolute /row/ like that, I can’t support Demarais OR Mendoza, with the shameful behavior of the crown cardinals who supported them.”

Reni pretended not to listen. Uccello made a considering noise. “Well, there are three other candidates,” Uccello stated diplomatically. 

“Yes, there are, each with his own faults and detractors,” Thiebaud shot back. He wrung his hands again. Uccello placed a hand on Thiebaud’s shoulder. 

“I suggest we all go home and get some sleep. As you’ve said, we have another day of voting ahead of us,” Uccello said. Thiebaud sighed. 

“I thought I was like you, going into this. I had my vote clear in my mind. Now I’m not so sure,” Thiebaud confessed. 

“Perhaps you should consider the reasons you initially supported whichever candidate you chose, and compare those against the attributes of the others,” Uccello proposed. “Sleep on it. It is Easter after all, and the world is new with the dawn.” 

Thiebaud grumbled a bit, but eventually he said his goodbyes, and parted ways with Uccello and Reni.

“Do you think you’ve convinced him to support your favored candidate?” Reni asked, once they were again on the way home and out of earshot.

Uccello didn’t know. “I can hope, I suppose. Unlike Peretti, Sforza didn’t get involved in the fight, so he comes out of it looking a bit better.” 

“I should hope he didn’t fight,” Reni stated bluntly, “at his age, it could have killed him.” 

Uccello only shrugged, and they walked in silence back to Uccello’s door. They sat in the kitchen again, each considering the day ahead. Reni expressed a desire to find a roast joint of ham, with Lent over, and they were in a discussion of favorite meat dishes when Montreux finally returned. He must have gone all the way to the church near his family home to have been gone so long, and he startled a little when he saw Uccello still awake, sitting at the table with Reni beside a cold hearth. His shapeless hat clutched in his fingers, he hesitated at the door to the kitchen before diverting to his room. Uccello watched him go, and finally rose from his chair, moving to place his cup in the basin. He reached for Reni’s as well, then stretched and rolled his shoulders. 

“He was probably trying to decide whether he should inform me how late, or rather early, it is,” Uccello noted, casting his eyes toward Montreux’s door. 

“Perhaps.” Reni stood as well. “Or debating whether he’d ask how you got this bruise under your eye,” Reni reminded him, touching the darkness above Uccello’s cheekbone again and making him wince. 

“Ouch, you needn’t bring it up,” Uccello huffed, but there was no real bite to it. “At the very least, there will be a number of cardinals looking far worse than me at St. Peter’s tomorrow. There’s the benefit to being among the youngest of their number.” 

“Worse than the one we met at the basilica?” Reni asked, meandering into the front room, where it appeared Montreux had already laid out a folded blanket. Uccello wondered if this would be the routine going forward, as Reni continued work on the fresco.

“The French crown cardinal was unconscious when I left,” Uccello related, uncaring of whether or not he should divulge such things. The workings of the conclave were secret; the fight had not been, to the best of Uccello’s knowledge, an example of the ‘workings’ of anything. 

Reni laughed, and grabbed for the blanket, but then, there was a knock at the door. Reni and Uccello looked at each other. 

“Who on earth would knock /now/?” Uccello asked quietly. Reni glanced around as if looking for someplace to hide, but Uccello ignored this and padded to the door in his house slippers. Reni retreated into the kitchen, which was hardly better than simply standing barefoot on the rug, clutching a blanket, but Uccello couldn’t let it bother him, hastily rebuttoning his cassock and surplice. More knocking, a bit louder and more insistent this time. Uccello clicked his tongue in annoyance and swung open the door. On the landing stood Cardinal Rodriguez, looking very sweaty and harried indeed. He dashed inside as soon as Uccello made room for him. 

“What’s happened to you?” Uccello asked, and though Rodriguez seemed to have avoided the worst of the fight, lacking the prominent bruises Uccello sported, he began pacing almost immediately, rubbing nervously at his beard. 

“I can’t take it anymore!” Rodriguez hissed, causing Uccello to arch his brows. “Every time I turn around there’s some new courier at my door, offering me a chateau, or a vineyard, or a title somewhere comfortable, which is obviously an effort to convince me to vote for whichever candidate’s paying them.” 

Uccello was hardly surprised at that. Such simony was an offense against the Church, but it was more common than tax evasion. 

“I came here because I knew you were the one person in the cardinalate who wouldn’t be swayed by such things,” Rodriguez said, and Uccello puffed up. Did Rodriguez really hold Uccello’s resistance against temptation in such high regard? “After all, everyone knows to whom /your/ vote goes.” Uccello deflated again. Of course. 

“I should think your allegiances would be equally obvious, given the signet ring on your finger,” Uccello replied, wanting nothing more than to be done with all this and to retreat to his bed. 

“No, you see, I also voted for Sforza! But the crown cardinal mustn’t know that,” Rodriguez confessed. 

That actually /did/ surprise Uccello. He’d been sure that Rodriguez would vote out of loyalty to his motherland, and wondered whether it was Sforza’s experience, or Rodriguez’s familiarity with Uccello, which had swayed his vote. 

“I see,” Uccello stated. A dish rattled in the kitchen, and Rodriguez jumped visibly. Uccello waved a dismissive hand. “So what is your plan, then? Hide out here until they give up and go home?” 

“Well, I wanted them to see my coach leave, and you live farther away than anyone I know.” 

Uccello forced his face into a mask of smooth indifference. “That being the case, you must have spent a bit of time in travel, do you think they’d have given up the chase by now?”

“Perhaps, it’s just... well, it’s hard to refuse some of the gifts and benefices I’m being offered. Is it not the same for you?” Rodriguez smoothed his hands over his cassock.

Uccello didn’t know what to say. Nobody had even tried to bribe him, and there were too many ways to interpret that fact. Honestly, how were people finding the time to offer bribes, in the hours before dawn on Easter? “Not exactly,” he deflected. “In any case, the conclave reconvenes in just a scant few hours, so you only need to evade your pursuers until then.”

“I suppose,” Rodriguez mumbled. “But then, if we still cannot elect a suitable person by tomorrow evening, the process begins all over again. They’re driving me out of my /wits/, by God!” 

“Well then, we all must pray, and allow Christ our Lord to guide us in our choice,” Uccello answered casually. He was tired of standing, but knew that if he sat, Rodriguez would too, and then this would become an even longer visit. Rodriguez passed a hand over his face. 

“Somehow, I knew you would say that,” he complained. “Alright, alright,” he conceded, “I’ll run the gauntlet again. Just know that I have faced temptation and have not been swayed. Until tomorrow, Venerable Brother.” 

Uccello saw him to the door, and fairly sagged against it when it was closed. Reni slipped out of the kitchen unhurriedly as the clatter of Rodriguez’s coach faded into the night. 

“You mustn’t discuss with anyone the bribes he’s being offered, of course,” Uccello said, as Reni approached him. 

“Obviously.” Reni began to spread out the blanket on the rug again. “Interesting that it’s so quiet here, considering,” Reni observed. 

Uccello shot him a look. “We’ve discussed before that I do not have an abundance of friends in the Curia. I presume that my vote is not worth buying,” he admitted. 

“Or, since it seems your preferred candidate is widely known, it’s assumed to be too costly to try to sway your vote,” Reni offered. 

“Regardless, I don’t envy Rodriguez the position he’s in. I’d prefer to get some sleep before the whole tedious process starts over again, rather than being harassed at all hours by couriers offering me villas in the north or some such thing,” Uccello sniffed.

“You wouldn’t be tempted? You wouldn’t agree to at least consider someone else, if it meant you’d get a winery in the south of France out of it?” Reni urged, knelt on the floor like a parishioner. 

Uccello shrugged. “I could be deposed from my office if I were found out,” he stated. 

“So? Become a vintner, then,” Reni joked, “with the vineyard you’ve just been gifted. Trade your red hat for a pair of purple grape-stomping feet.” 

Uccello snorted. “/Bishops/ wear purple,” he scoffed lightly. “Besides,” he combed a hand through his hair, “I was born to wear red.”

Reni grinned at him, and Uccello had to mirror him. As before, Reni took the cushions from the chairs and Uccello thought idly about ordering a thin mattress of the sort that could be rolled up and stored away, if Reni was to make a habit of making his bed in Uccello’s front room. That wouldn’t be too objectionable, especially if it was more convenient for Reni as he worked on the fresco. 

Uccello found himself again standing by as Reni laid himself on the floor, stretched out his long legs, rolled his ankles until the bones made audible pops. He settled into the cushions with apparent relish, and Uccello remembered the bizarre position in which he’d found Reni sleeping before, atop his scaffold in the basilica. This, at least, was better than that. 

“Good night, master Reni,” he said at last. 

Eyes closed, Reni huffed a laugh. “Good night, Cardinal Deacon Uccello.” 

Uccello climbed the stairs, yawning loudly. Reni called out to him again, when he was only on the third stair. 

“Do you actually think I am the most skilled painter in Rome?” he asked. Uccello turned and looked at him. He was sitting up in his bedroll with his arms on his knees.

“It’s why I’m paying you,” Uccello said, before he mounted the rest of the stairs and shut himself in his room at long, long last. Would Reni still be there in the morning? He’d been surprised before. Performing his nightly ablutions by candlelight, Uccello finally got a good look at the bruise under his eye, and the large split in his lip. It was about as bad as Reni had suggested in his drawing. He grimaced at his own reflection and stripped off before crawling into bed.

Falling asleep was easy, after the day he’d had, and he drifted into a vividly colorful dream wherein the French crown cardinal had gifted him a chateau in Brittany, and he was lost in its many rooms, trying to find Reni who had said he’d found the perfect room in which to paint. In the sunlit halls, however, he continually crossed paths with Peretti and his friends, and had to ask over and over what they were doing in his house, but they’d duck into a room and disappear. He had a feeling that, once he found Reni, he’d have something wonderful to show him, a truly brilliant work, but first, he had to discover where Reni had set up his studio. He woke suddenly to the sound of a creaking floorboard in the center of his bedroom, and sat up in bed. 

There was enough moonlight coming in around the curtains that he could see Reni’s outline, standing on his rug, cushions under one arm and blanket over the other. 

“What time is it?” Uccello asked. He couldn’t imagine he’d been abed long, given that the sun had not yet risen. 

“Early still. Montreux has just gone to start the fire, and the noise was keeping me awake, so I decided to move up here. Go back to sleep,” Reni whispered back, his tone so low and mellow it almost coaxed Uccello back down to his pillows. Uccello blinked at him in the darkness, and rubbed his eyes. 

“Well if you’re going to be up here, you might as well sleep in the bed,” he decided, rolling closer to one side to make space. “So I don’t trip over you at least,” he added with a yawn. 

Reni hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“This is the largest bed I’ve ever owned. I’m sure there’s room,” he replied, already shuffling himself back under the covers. After a few more moments of silence, he finally felt the bed dip behind him as Reni climbed in. Uccello’s nose twitched. “Take that shirt off, though, you’ve been sweating in it all day and night,” he commanded, and then he felt the mattress shift as Reni complied. Uccello rolled over again, to ensure Reni didn’t drop his shirt into the basin or jug, and there Reni was, much closer than Uccello had anticipated. He was sitting up, so a shaft of moonlight could trace his edges like silver leaf marginalia in an illuminated manuscript. Uccello remembered Reni’s self portrait as the young hero David, and realized he hadn’t idealized his own musculature. He was broad, and vital, and gleaming. He could have been a biblical hero. He could have been a gladiator in the ancient Colosseum. Instead he was a painter, and he’d left his sword by Uccello’s door. His eyes shone in the darkness, and Uccello could not fathom what the man could be thinking. He said nothing, and in the end, neither did Reni. He simply slid down under the cover alongside Uccello, and gently laid his head on the pillow. Uccello rolled onto his side, facing the window, so he wouldn’t be nose to nose with the other man. He could hear Reni breathing, could feel his warm breath at the base of his neck. It lulled him back into a deep, deep sleep. 

When he awoke again, it was because he was too hot in the bed. The dawn light had reached him, painted a blazing square across the cover, but when Uccello moved to throw off the blankets, he found he was pinned down by a heavy arm draped over him. He could hear, and feel, Reni lightly snoring into his hair, and it almost made him laugh. Despite having gone to bed after the vigil, and having had his sleep interrupted, Uccello woke feeling more rested than he could remember having been in a long time. Perhaps it was Reni’s presence. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d slept with someone beside him. It must have been when he’d been a kitchen boy, when he’d first come to Rome. He’d had a communal sleeping room then, with a number of the other house staff. Reni didn’t snore nearly as loudly as the cook had, though. Reni’s was just a slight snuffle, almost sweet in its honesty. All Uccello could see of him, though, was his left hand, hanging off the side of the bed and trapping Uccello under the sweep of his arm. Such a large hand, with prominent veins and knuckles. It was relaxed with sleep, but Uccello knew that Reni likely had intended to leave before now. Already the light would be streaming into the chapel, back in the basilica. He supposed he should rouse Reni sooner rather than later. 

He shifted onto his back, which put Reni’s prominent nose just under his ear. His sleep-heavy breath puffed over the side of Uccello’s neck, ticklish, and he mumbled a petulant “nooo” into the skin, tightening his grip on Uccello’s torso as if clinging to his restful sleep, or the edges of a dream. Uccello did laugh, then. 

Uccello’s shaking shoulders finally woke Reni, who pushed himself up and blinked blearily at Uccello, staring down at him as if he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there. The pieces seemed to fall into place slowly, and when they did, Reni shook his head, and swung his feet over the other side of the bed, turning his back on Uccello. 

“I’ve overslept,” he muttered, reaching for his shirt. “My plan was to do the face today. I hope I have time.”

“Oh?” Uccello asked, climbing out of bed from the other side and approaching his shaving table. “You finally decided upon Bathsheba’s features?”

“I believe so,” Reni answered. He pulled his dirty shirt on and combed his fingers through his tangled hair. 

“Well, I look forward to seeing it, then,” Uccello said. He shaved quickly, and combed his hair, and by the time he was reaching for a fresh cassock, Reni had slipped out the door, his heavy footfalls thundering down the stairs. Uccello chuckled. He was relieved to hear that Reni’s progress was moving along. He straightened his surplice and mozzetta. He still didn’t know if the fresco would accomplish his goals. It all depended upon who won the papacy... though, with Thiebaud’s shaken confidence and Rodriguez’s late-night visit confirming that he, too, had voted for Sforza, Uccello allowed himself a fragile shred of hope. 

His tea was ready when he walked into the kitchen, and Montreux was at the basin, washing the cups from the previous night. Reni sat at the table, struggling his boots on. His sword lay before him on the tabletop, its hilt glittering in the morning light.

“I can’t believe how late it’s gotten,” he murmured, almost to himself, though it was probably only an hour or so after dawn. 

“Yes, I should be setting out for the conclave, shortly,” Uccello replied, swirling his tea in his cup to shift the powdered leaves around. 

“What do you think, will your friend Sforza take the Holy See?” Reni sounded rather disinterested, which Uccello thought odd. 

“He recommended your services to me, you know,” Uccello stated. It wasn’t as though Sforza and Reni were strangers.

“I know.” Reni stood, stomped his left foot to settle his boot on his heel. “Shortly before that, he and I had been going back and forth over commissions he /might/ like to have done, though he never made any decisions, or put any money down.”

“Well, that hardly affects my opinion of whether or not he deserves the papacy,” Uccello answered, chuckling. 

Reni shrugged, hiding a smile. “It’s beyond me to make pronouncements on such things. That’s probably better left to a higher power.” 

Uccello watched Reni leave before him. It was Sunday, and while it was, to most, the Lord’s Day, Uccello still had a duty to do. Leaving his cup on the counter, he strode out into the street, and made for the stable.

He could smell bacon frying as the people of Rome broke their Lenten fast. Ordinarily there would be a second Mass at the Vatican, presided over by the Pope, but, with the Holy See vacant, there was something of a blank space in the day’s events. Holy Week as a whole had been fairly disrupted, in fact. He could see some crosses woven from palm in the windows of houses he passed on his way to the stable, but he’d barely taken note of Palm Sunday, Spy Wednesday, Holy Thursday, or Good Friday, considering the days of mourning which had dominated the cardinalate for more than a week. How had the people of Rome fared? He bought a sweet bread shaped like a dove from a baker offering Easter sweets on a tray, and thought, with or without a pope, some things had still carried on. 

As expected, the stable was mostly deserted. A single stable boy sat on a stool, ostensibly as a guard, though his attention seemed mostly focused upon the figurine he was whittling from scrap wood with a small pocket knife. He jumped when Uccello’s shadow fell across him, and dropped his knife into the straw at his feet. 

“Happy Easter,” Uccello greeted. The boy hurried to find and pocket his knife, before fetching Uccello’s saddle and getting Finale ready to travel. While the stable boy was busy (Uccello supposed only Giuseppe got Sundays off), Uccello looked at the rough carving the boy had left on his chair. It depicted what Uccello believed to be the Holy Virgin, her simple face set into carved swaths of cloth, though he’d given her rather pronounced breasts beneath the fall of her modest mantle. Uccello shook his head and decided not to comment upon it. 

Finale protested going out in the heat as much as she usually did, tossing her head and flicking her ears. Uccello felt a bit bad about driving her a little faster than usual, but with the late start he’d gotten, it was necessary in order to arrive at St. Peter’s at an appropriate time. He remembered what Rodriguez had said, that Uccello lived farther away from /most things/ than anyone he knew. Hoping he wouldn’t be the last to arrive, Uccello sped Finale a bit more. He’d reward her later for her hard work. 

The fire was already going when he walked into the chapel, but it was less warm inside than it had been the previous day— probably because it was early yet. As the sun climbed, the brilliant patches of light beamed in through the high windows would shift, and soon enough, they’d fall on the long table where the cardinals sat in their requisite layers. 

Uccello took one of the last open seats, which happened to be next to Fouquet, who sat with his fingers laced, looking genial and patently oblivious to the sour, haggard faces around him. 

“Ah, young Uccello,” Fouquet greeted, as seemed to be his way, “I’d been hoping to ask you, before all that unpleasantness yesterday, how goes it with your commission in Santa Maria Maggiore?” 

‘Unpleasantness’ surely was one way to put it.

“It goes apace,” Uccello answered, a little proud on Reni’s behalf of the steady progress. “The artist is a true talent. I’ve hardly ever seen his like.”

“Dear old Scipione mentioned that, yes,” Fouquet replied conversationally. “Though he didn’t have any examples of the man’s work to show me. As far as I can tell, you’ll be one of a rather exclusive club— no one I’ve spoken to has had work commissioned from him. I take it he’s either incredibly picky, or outrageously expensive... oh, dear, pardon my implication! I don’t mean to suggest you’re overpaying! I’m just terribly curious.” 

Fouquet seemed genuine enough, so Uccello took no offense. All around them, the princes of the church sat up straighter than usual in their chairs, putting on an act of dignity as if that alone could disguise their bruised faces and scuffed knuckles. Even those who had pulled away from the fray before sustaining injuries made an attempt to appear poised and imperious, as if they were above all of yesterday’s nonsense. Fouquet alone leaned on his elbows as he chatted idly, injecting levity into the oppressive atmosphere. It almost made Uccello forget the vivid bruising on his own face.

“If you’re interested, I’ll give you his contact information,” Uccello offered, on a whim. “Though I must confess, it is somewhat inconvenient to correspond with him, as he is in the terrible habit of ignoring his mail. It is forever piling up outside his door, and I can’t tell you what I’ve spent on messengers—“

Uccello cut himself off as the lots went around to choose who would be a ballot counter or an overseer or whichever this time around. Fortunately or not, Uccello was appointed as a counter by random chance, and while the task was a tedious one, he was accustomed to the workings of the Congregation for the Annona, so counting just ninety-three ballots couldn’t be too hard. Besides which, in the glow of Easter morning, he had to consider what an honor it was to be responsible in part for the election of the man who would represent the Almighty on earth. 

Just as before, the ballots were written and collected, only this time, he and two others proceeded to a table at the front of the room and each counted and tallied the votes in turn. Uccello was the last to be given the pile, and he couldn’t read the expressions on the other two counters’ faces. The results would not be announced until the three of them compared their numbers, so Uccello got to work. 

A pattern immediately became apparent, and it shocked him thoroughly. He almost couldn’t believe it. But as the tally climbed, it was soon obvious that no other candidate would be able the challenge the results. His eyebrows rose steadily. The tallies had long passed the required majority. At seventy-one votes, the election was nearly ‘by inspiration’, as if the Lord Himself had whispered a candidate’s name in the cardinalate’s ears. Uccello hadn’t heard such divine whispers in the night— just Reni’s breath, his light snores. 

Perhaps that was apparent, because Sforza had garnered only thirteen votes. But then, Peretti was worse off with only nine. The clear winner, to Uccello’s profound disbelief, the Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Servant of the servants of God, the Pope... was obviously and undeniably Cardinal Priest Jean-Pierre Fouquet. 

He looked around the room and found ninety faces staring back at him. Seventy-one of these men had chosen Fouquet, a man who had not even been in the running as far as Rome’s gamblers were concerned. Taking in the swollen eyes, the bruised chins, the cracked and bleeding lips on his fellow cardinals, Uccello wondered, had the vote gone to Fouquet simply to prevent another fight? Was he really the right man for the job?

Before the previous pope died, Uccello would have said he disliked and distrusted Fouquet. He’d regarded him as a frivolous man, more interested in benefits and benefices than benedictions and benefaction. He remembered the half-blind beggar with his wooden bowl, and nearly cried out: /Why?/ Why him?! 

But the results were clear. He turned to the other two counters. Obviously, the numbers matched. Uccello stood. 

“To Cardinal Priest Edoardo Peretti...” He met Peretti’s gaze. He saw the anticipation there. The hope. “Nine votes.” Uccello reminded himself he was in a house of God, to avoid expressing the glee he felt when he watched Peretti’s expression crumble.

“To Cardinal Bishop Scipione Sforza...” Uccello didn’t want to meet Sforza’s eyes. “Thirteen votes.” He could feel Sforza’s attention on him like a physical weight, as if Uccello could have, indeed /should/ have changed the results. But, there was nothing either of them could do. There was nothing left but to speak the truth of it, before the gathered cardinals, and under the watch of the Heavenly Father. 

“To Cardinal Priest Jean-Pierre Fouquet...” Uccello hesitated. He heard an unsubtle gasp somewhere in the room. The answer must have been written on his face. “Seventy-one votes. Cardinal Fouquet has the required majority. We have a Pope.”

Finally, Uccello sought out Fouquet’s face in the crowd. He looked dumbstruck. He halfway stood up, and then collapsed back into his chair again. 

“My God,” Fouquet rasped. And then the room broke into cheers.

The ballot collectors gathered the papers. They processed to the hearth. They threw them into the flames, along with the additive which made the smoke billow pure and white. It was Easter morning, the bells of St. Peter’s rang out, it was a time of rebirth and new beginnings, and Rome and the world had a new Pope. 

Silently, almost from outside himself, Uccello watched the Dean of the College stand, heard him ask, “By what name will you be called?”, watched Fouquet ponder it. Had this come as such a shock to him, as well, that he didn’t even have a Papal name in mind?

“I suppose,” he said at length, as though choosing what to have for supper, “I will be Fabiano Secundus.” He stood, slowly, brushed off his cassock. “After a pope who reigned over many years of peace in a time of turmoil... or, more appropriately, I take the name after another cardinal who was no doubt shocked to find himself ascending to the Holy See.” He glanced toward Uccello with a sly grin. “Or perhaps I should say, I choose the name after ‘faba’, for ‘bean’, honoring my time spent in the Congregation for the Annona.”

There was some scattered laughter, but Uccello didn’t know how to react. He didn’t know what Fouquet— or, now, His Holiness, Pope Fabiano II— meant by that. He didn’t know how this man’s election would influence Uccello’s aspirations, or even his simple security in his position. He seemed friendly, even sympathetic, but could that change if someone else had his ear? 

Effectively numb in his chair, Uccello watched the new pope leave the room to change into what would be his vestments from that day forward; white and pure as the morning. When he returned, the senior-most cardinal deacon moved to open the doors to the central balcony. Stood on the small outcrop overlooking St. Peter’s Square, the older cardinal recited in Latin the words which had welcomed each new Pope for nearly two hundred years: “Annuntio vobis gaudium magnum: HABEMUS PAPAM!” 

‘/With great joy/, he says,’ Uccello thought, the other cardinal deacon’s words flowing over him without fully registering. He chanced a look at Peretti, who sat glowering into the tabletop. It was as dark a look as any he’d seen in the fight the previous day. As if unaware that he was observed, Peretti dug his thumbnail into the worn edge of the table, and dragged it, following the grain, and leaving a gouged scratch in his wake. Worse, though, was Sforza.

As the senior cardinal deacon announced to Rome that Jean-Pierre Fouquet was now to be known as Fabiano Secundus, and as Pope Fabiano II walked to the balcony to declare “Urbi et orbi”, Sforza’s face twisted into an impenetrable mask of fury. Uccello had never seen such a look on his face, in all the years he’d known the man. It must have been a bitter disappointment, especially, though Uccello didn’t like to think of it, because Sforza was rather getting on in years. Fouquet— /Fabiano II/, he corrected himself again— was not /young/, but he was certainly less aged than Sforza, and it was unlikely that Sforza would live to see the end of this new papacy. Barring highly unusual circumstances, Sforza would never again be candidate in a conclave.

In the grip of one hand, Sforza had utterly ruined his quill, splintered the shaft and ripped the feather into fine shreds. How awkward that Sforza and His Newly Elected Holiness were friends! It was clear that His Holiness also felt the tension, because his first act as Pope was to clear his throat as the senior cardinal deacon returned from the balcony, and wait until he had everyone’s attention. 

“I wish I could host everyone for a dinner, to thank you all for the trust you have in me, and for the opportunity you have granted, but I’m currently lodging at a hotel and I’m sure the papal apartments aren’t ready yet. Gracious me, how am I to bring my effects here from France? Never mind,” he amended, clasping his hands in front of himself. “What I mean to say is, I feel as though we ought to break bread together. Does anyone have a suggestion for a venue?” He rubbed his chin. “We are fortunate that it is Easter,” he went on. “The dinner can have /meats/, and I for one am terribly tired of dining on fish and fruit like some kind of trained monkey. Honestly, it’s enough to put one off this whole Lent business for at least a year.” 

Uccello let out a huff of surprised laughter. Sforza gaped at the Pope from his chair, but Peretti’s response was even more extreme. Peretti stood, facing the new Pope across the table. Uccello braced for impact. 

“I think we should dine at my palazzo,” Peretti stated. Uccello’s brows shot up. Was this an olive branch? Where did this sudden change of heart come from? A moment ago he was clawing the table, and now, an offer of hospitality and confraternity? Glancing around the room, it seemed the rest of the cardinalate was as shocked as he was. Then, it made sense. Peretti was just young enough that he may yet have another shot at the papacy. This display of goodwill could only be the first step toward that, toward re-ingratiating himself to his fellows. Uccello’s nails bit into his palms. He didn’t want to attend, did not want to have to sit and smile and make nice with a man who had made his dislike so publicly known, but, considering the equally public nature of the invitation, it would be worse if he didn’t.


	11. The Denial of Saint Peter (Part 2)

He returned home for a short while, dreading the hour when he’d be expected at Peretti’s expansive estate. On the kitchen table he found a note from Montreux, indicating that he’d gone to meet his sister at the convent of San Girolamo, for an Easter mass. There wasn’t much of interest in the pantry, either. Like Pope Fabiano II, at the end of 40 days of fasting, Uccello was somewhat bored of dried fish, and fruit, and bread. Thinking about the convent into which Montreux’s sister had gone, Uccello was reminded that Pietra’s tavern was very near there, and decided, with little else to do now that (God help him) they’d elected a new Pope, he’d go see if the Taberna di Mercurio was open. 

It was, and it was busy with customers breaking their fasts with succulent roasted ham. Pietra had outdone herself, and Uccello’s mouth watered, the smell of sugar and spices, soft baked fruits, herbs and orange peel drawing him inside alongside all the laughing and carousing patrons. 

“Well well, the good cardinal!” Pietra greeted as he entered. Several people looked up but he proceeded to a seat at the bar. “If you’re here this early that means we must have a pope! Unless you lads had another fight?” 

He grimaced. News certainly traveled fast. “Habemus Papam,” he declared tiredly. “His Holiness, Fabiano Secundus, Bishop of Rome, so on and so forth.” 

“Good luck to him, then, hey?” Pietra replied, indifferent. “Someone really did a number on your face, though. Did you give him one better?” 

“I hardly remember,” Uccello answered honestly. It was best that he couldn’t recall the details, though. He surely didn’t want to share the humiliating truth of the story with the gossips in the tavern. The sooner /other/ people forgot it had happened, the better. 

Pietra clicked her tongue. “Pity. I’ll bet you fought like a leopard.” There was a glint of something in her eye, but he didn’t rise to the bait. 

“Tell me some of that roast ham plate I smell is still on offer?” he asked instead. Pietra stuck her head into the kitchen and came back a moment later. 

“You’re in luck, Cardinal. Shall I get you some iced wine as well?” 

Uccello knew the ice would cost him, with the persistent heat, but he nodded anyway.

“You’re an angel, Pietra,” he murmured. “When you die, they’ll canonize you as a saint.”

Pietra snorted, pouring wine into one of her Florentine glasses. “They’ll put my reliquary in a wine bottle, and put it up, to age.”

Uccello ate quietly and slowly. His stomach was unaccustomed do such rich food after over a month of fasting— how other people gorged themselves at the end of Lent without being sick, he’d never know. The crowd behind him changed as the day wore on, and Uccello sipped his wine to pass the time. He wondered how Reni was getting on. There would be services in the basilica for most of the day. Would that bother the artist, put him off his work? He’d said he intended to do Bathsheba’s face. Such an important part of the piece should only be attempted with utmost concentration. Or, so Uccello assumed. He was extremely anxious to see Reni’s progress, but he had to attend the dinner at Peretti’s palazzo, and in a week there would be the coronation, and he was almost certain there would be another string of rites to be performed in advance of that, just as there had been between the death of the previous pope and his funeral. Uccello hoped he wouldn’t be kept busy away from Santa Maria Maggiore for that entire time. 

The ice in his glass had melted. Pietra came around to ask if he’d be having another, or if he had important church things to get to, and he slid off his stool, fishing for his coin purse. He put down more coins than was necessary, and Pietra accepted them without comment. The bells at the nearby convent rang out the hour for the None Prayer. He would be expected at Peretti’s palazzo before Vespers. 

Perhaps he would see Cardinal Peretti’s brother, Doctor Peretti, at the dinner. This cheered him a little as he left the tavern and glanced down the street at the little convent. Was Montreux still in the area? He had no way of knowing, but stopped a moment anyway to listen to the Augustinian nuns, singing their prayers. 

Doctor Peretti had always been kind enough to him, and Uccello greatly appreciated the fact that the good doctor continued to stock the tea drink Uccello had grown to like so much. He’d even been invited to the doctor’s daughter’s first communion. So perhaps Uccello could converse with him, and avoid talk with Cardinal Peretti, and whomever else had contributed to Uccello’s black eye, split lip, and scabbed knuckles. 

—————

Montreux brought a basket of sweet rolls and olive bread back to the house from the convent. Uccello, sitting in the kitchen and drinking a late afternoon cup of tea, asked how Montreux’s sister had fared since taking her vows... after all, Uccello himself had helped to place her in that convent specifically. He hoped she was happy there. 

Montreux hid a laugh behind his hand. “Well, she’s a better singer than Henriette, to be sure,” he commented, a little wickedly. Uccello took a moment to try and remember which of Montreux’s sisters Henriette was. Second youngest of the family, he thought. 

“Yes, the Augustinians say that when one sings, one prays twice,” Uccello replied. “Your sister must get a lot of practice.”

“I think if Henriette joined the convent, they’d kick her out for offending our Lord. Praying just the once should be enough, with a voice like hers,” Montreux joked. Uccello grinned, but Montreux recanted a bit. “That’s unkind to say, I know. The Bible says ‘honor thy father and thy mother,’ but I’m not sure it says anything about thy sister.” 

Uccello shrugged, and took a bit of olive bread. “Did your sister, the nun, tell you we’ve elected a new Pope?” 

“Oh, yes! I’d meant to ask you about that. Er. Can you say what he’s like?” Montreux knelt by the hearth to sweep some of the ashes away. It was too hot to build a fire, but Uccello appreciated the effort nonetheless. 

“He is... well, actually, he occupied my office in the Curia before me. Then he got elevated to Cardinal Priest and went home to France, so I’m not sure how he’s comported himself for a number of years. Do you consider yourself French, Montreux?” The bread was substantial, and filling. He thought of the nuns kneading the olives into the dough, working to make food to give away, in the hours between their prayers.

“Not really, sir,” Montreux answered, his voice echoing a bit in the chimney. “I was born in Rome and have never left it. I barely speak any French. Only the things my mother would say when we were driving her spare.”

“Well, never mind then. Pope Fabiano Secundus... well, I know he has a fondness for art and literature concerning the pagan mythologies of the ancient times. To be honest with you I—” Uccello hesitated a moment. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course, sir!” Montreux retorted quickly. Uccello nodded. 

“To be honest with you, I didn’t think much of him, for many years. I thought he mishandled the Congregation for the Annona, and that he used the office to enrich himself, rather than to aid the people. But since he’s been back in Rome... I don’t know. He’s acted as if we are old friends. It’s very strange.” Uccello folded his hands on the table, stared down at them blankly. “And I should be glad that the new pope is friendly to me. I’d been so worried that one of the several cardinals who hate me and think I don’t deserve to even be a friar much less a cardinal would be elected. But instead, in a turnout that took me completely by surprise, this man has ascended to the Holy See. And now I’m expected to attend a celebratory dinner at the palazzo of one of the very cardinals who has been so opposed to my presence in the Curia, who, by the way, was one of the strongest contenders for the papacy /only yesterday/. In the span of just twenty-four hours, absolutely everything has changed, and I hardly know how to keep up.” 

Montreux uttered a low whistle. “That certainly sounds like a lot to consider, sir. But, well. It /is/ Easter. It’s not the first time the world was changed, on this day.”

—————

Finale was annoyed to have been removed from her stall twice in one day, and showed it by taking a deep breath before the groom could cinch her saddle, so he had to wait for her to exhale or else the saddle would be loose. She tossed her head when the groom attempted to put on her bridle. Really, she was a very spoiled horse. Eventually the groom was victorious, though, and led her by the reins to where Uccello waited, watching their little drama unfold. Even though she’d been naughty, Uccello still reached into his pocket to draw out some dried apricots for her. This placated her somewhat, and she stood still while he hauled himself up into the saddle. He hoped she wouldn’t try to bite the other cardinals’ horses at Peretti’s palazzo, since she seemed to be in a feisty mood. He certainly didn’t need the expense of paying them for damages. If he was lucky, a vast estate like that would have stables for a team of horses, and if Uccello was early, perhaps Finale could get a private stall. Other cardinals would likely arrive by coach. Did the Peretti family really have enough space on their grounds to accommodate the horses and carriages of /ninety-three/ cardinals? Uccello assumed so, or else, Cardinal Peretti wouldn’t have offered. Privately, Uccello cursed the man again. Such an offensive display of excess he just couldn’t believe. 

He rode to the gate, and was admitted by servants in livery who directed him to go up the path, past the main house and to the left. The path was bounded on both sides by trees in various states of fruit and flower, which framed a visitor’s first view of the grand entryway of the main house, and led past it on the left to the outbuildings and stables, hidden from view by immaculately pruned hedges, and to the right, a sculpture garden. Uccello rolled his eyes as he dismounted and walked Finale to the stables, which were, in a word, ridiculous. Twice as large at least as Giuseppe’s stable, and buzzing with activity. At least Uccello could be assured that his horse would be looked after, as a stable boy took Finale’s reins without prompting, and led her to a stall to remove her tack and feed and water her. 

There seemed to be an endless stream of servants flowing around him, leading him to the door, opening it with a bow, directing him into a sitting room to wait for dinner, offering him a glass of wine. He was not the first to arrive, it seemed. Bianchi was in the sitting room already, seated near the fire and reading a book he’d likely pulled from the many shelves that lined the walls. Uccello took a seat nearby, and Bianchi looked up. 

“Have you read this? It’s a bit old, but I never got around to it,” he said, in lieu of a formal greeting. He held up the title page of the book, so Uccello could read it. /Il Principe, di Niccolò Machiavelli/, it read. 

“I haven’t,” Uccello admitted. He knew of it, knew that it was a treatise on political philosophy, and that it had a reputation for being highly immoral in its advice to heads of state. Interesting that it should be in the library of a man who had his eye on the papacy. “Is it really as bad as all the critics have said?”

Bianchi gave a noncommittal shrug. “I haven’t read all of it. I flipped to the section on ‘Obtaining a Principality through Wickedness’. It seemed the most engaging.” 

“I suppose that means, ascending to a throne by murdering the other heirs who stand the way, am I right?” Uccello asked. Bianchi returned to the page he’d been reading. 

“It tells of a man of low birth, who decided he would make himself prince of Syracuse.”

Uccello worried a little where this was going. He himself was a man of low birth, who had made himself a prince of the Church. 

“He began by rising through the ranks of the army,” Bianchi went on, “until he was Praetor, and upon reaching that rank, he called the senators and the nobles of Syracuse for a meeting as if to discuss matters of state, and then gave the signal to his army to slaughter them all... whereupon he seized the princedom, and indeed, held it.” Bianchi paraphrased in his quiet, indifferent tone, and didn’t look up from the page. Based upon that, Uccello doubted that Bianchi meant to target Uccello specifically with it. “It goes on to say that the same was done by the nephew of the former ruler of Fermo, this sort of double-cross, during the reign of Alexander Sixtus. And, that said nephew held power there for a year, until he was strangled, it seems on the orders of Cesare Borgia. The former Cardinal.” 

“How barbaric,” Uccello replied, lip curling in distaste. 

“Yes, well, Cesare Borgia was eventually double-crossed by Pope Julius Secundus, so it was really just a sequence of betrayals, back then.” Bianchi stifled a yawn in his sleeve. “These chapters really are quite short,” he mused, flipping through the book again. “I could probably finish half of this book in just the time it takes our venerable brothers to arrive.”

“I hope they don’t take that long. You haven’t seen His Holiness yet, have you?” Uccello asked. He supposed it would be fairly obvious he’d rather get this whole affair over with as soon as possible. 

“No, not yet.” Bianchi offered a tired smile. “But as for me, I’m content to sit here and drink through Peretti’s wine stores for a little longer. He has a vineyard up north somewhere, you know. Siena, maybe. So, it’s good wine.” He took a deep drink, licked his stained lips. Delicately, Uccello sipped as well. It was good, but he didn’t much want to admit it. 

It took far too long for Uccello’s tastes for the remainder of the cardinalate to arrive. At some point, the house staff decided that there were too many cardinals in the palazzo for them all congregate in the library, and so they were led, en masse, to the banquet hall. Uccello had not yet seen Cardinal Peretti, who was, after all, supposed to be their host, but he was gratified to see Doctor Peretti and his family, sitting near one end of the long table with a tray of sweetbread, glistening fruit, and candied nuts between them. Uccello moved to sit beside them. 

“Your eminence, it has been some time,” the doctor’s wife, Adriana, greeted first. Uccello smiled.

“I am still working through that last brick of tea I bought,” he said. 

“It’s for the best we haven’t seen you,” the doctor added. “That means you’re healthy.” 

The doctor’s youngest daughter, perhaps three years of age already, sat in her father’s lap, sucking sugar from her fingers. 

“Do you remember Cardinal Uccello?” the doctor asked her, pointing. “He was at your first communion.” 

Uccello tried to appear as non-threatening as possible when the girl’s large dark eyes fell on him. She seemed more interested in licking up all the sweetness from her thumb, and then grabbing for another piece of fruit. 

“Ah, she doesn’t say much to strangers,” Adriana explained. 

“You have clothes like my uncle,” the girl said, surprising them all. “But you’re not old.” She had a slice of peach in her hand, and it was dripping down her arm. Her mother wiped at it with a table napkin. 

“You’re right, Benedetta,” Uccello answered, laughing a little. She nodded very seriously and then proceeded to eat her slice of peach messily. Her mother wiped at her daughter’s hands and face with the sort of automatic motions of a mother who has reared multiple children through this age. 

“I have a red dress, too,” the little girl declared, ignoring the napkin pressed against her cheek. “I’m gonna wear it tomorrow.” 

“Oh is that so? What are you going to do tomorrow?” Uccello asked, tickled that Doctor Peretti’s very young child was invested in talking to him. 

“I’m going to go to the market and I’m gonna buy a melon.” She spoke around her slice of peach, and Uccello raised his eyebrows, affecting an impressed face.

“Really, all by yourself?” he replied, and she shook her head so her little blonde curls flew. 

“No, my mama helps me. She takes me in a coach and we go, and we go look at every food in... in the world,” she finished confidently. 

Uccello was about to say something else, possibly about the fact that little Benedetta apparently believed that her uncle wore a dress, and nobody had corrected her on it, but then Cardinal Peretti walked in, accompanied by His Holiness. 

“Ah, good, we’re all here,” the pope declared. “What a day. I am ravenous.”

He sat at the center of the table, where a space had been left for him, and was immediately supplied with a cup of wine. 

“Oh, Edoardo, is this from your vineyard?” the pope asked, before even taking a sip. He swirled the wine in his glass, watched the way it slid along the sides. 

“Yes, your Holiness. That’s from a few summers back. We had a good year,” Cardinal Perettti answered. 

The pope tasted the wine, and nodded vigorously. “You really did. It may even rival my favorite French vintage, and my countrymen must forgive me for saying so.” He held the cup up to the light of a candle, observed the color of the wine. “Actually, perhaps you’ll permit me to buy a bottle or two?” 

“Of course, your Holiness. I will send word to my chief vintner to send some more right away,” Cardinal Peretti promised, with an obsequious manner Uccello found particularly grating. 

Sforza, at nearly the extreme opposite end of the table from Uccello, cleared his throat. “I wonder if you might permit me the same honor, Venerable Brother,” he said, and these were the first words Uccello had heard from him since the conclave. This, too, could only be an olive branch, a public display that there was no ill will between them. Uccello didn’t know how effective it would be, but Peretti assented nonetheless.

After Sforza asked to buy a few bottles, several other cardinals did too, and, just to see what would happen, Uccello also spoke up. 

“If you have one to spare, I should like to purchase a bottle as well.” 

This could go one of two ways: either, Peretti would see this as an attempt to make good with him, or he would see it as merely conforming to what the other cardinals did, pretending at being like them. Uccello watched the man carefully, to see how he reacted. After a second’s hesitation, Peretti nodded. 

“O-of course,” he faltered. Someone chuckled. Uccello smiled. 

“Wonderful,” Uccello said, inwardly crowing that Peretti had made himself appear foolish in his own home. 

The food arrived, and conversation turned to other things. Uccello instead returned his attention to Doctor Peretti and his delightful family. Off to his side, he could hear the new pope making pleasant conversation, though he couldn’t make out most of the content over the sound of the other cardinals, the clatter of cutlery. At some point during the meal, little Benedetta began to nod off, and her mother scooped her up to carry her off to bed. Uccello badly wished he could leave as well, but was trapped, forced to sit through several courses, a toast by the new pope, even puddings. At the end of it all, he was both exhausted and stuffed to the gills. 

Finale, too, seemed tired and overfed when the groom brought her. She was lethargic, and it slowed their trip back home. By the time he reached his front door, he felt weary as if he’d climbed a mountain, and he waved at Montreux and mumbled a short goodnight before climbing into bed. He’d barely slept the night before, after all, and the day had been fuller than most. He slept, haunted by strange dreams in which he’d been elected Pope, but the figures in all the frescoes decorating the walls of the papal apartments came to life and ran naked through the Vatican, and everyone blamed him for the indignity. He awoke with a dreadful headache. 

As expected, he was never left alone for long, as the new pope prepared for coronation. His hearth never wanted for tinder, for the number of missives, pronouncements, and invitations he received. On Wednesday, a delivery cart arrived to deliver the wine he’d ordered from Peretti (and to collect payment), and on Thursday, finally, he was able to return to the Congresso. It seemed like ages since they had met, and the meeting ran far, far longer than usual just in catching up on what they’d missed in all the chaos. His own eye and lip were healing nicely, bruises barely a sallow, sickly yellow, but Thiebaud still looked a bit swollen. He likely didn’t appreciate the long hours, but even if that was the case, he kept his head down and did not complain. 

On Friday Uccello meant to go and check on Reni’s progress, but did not wind up having the time. Reni had not returned to Uccello’s home, and Uccello wondered why, if it was more convenient to the basilica. Probably the man was again falling asleep on his scaffold, contorting himself into the most unusual shapes. Was the face done already? It had been nearly a week since Reni had said he intended to work on it, and Uccello didn’t know how long these sorts of things took, but he hoped there would be some progress since last he spoke to Reni. Uccello awoke on Saturday determined to go to the basilica, but instead, was greeted by Montreux holding a summons to the Apostolic Palace. The missive did not explain why, but bore the new pope’s seal, and so he was duty-bound to go. 

It appeared, when he arrived, that he and Cardinal Bishop Sforza were the only invitees. With the coronation the very next day, Uccello had fully expected that Pope Fabiano II would be calling all the cardinals together for something. A rehearsal, maybe. But instead, he found himself striding through the labyrinthine halls and pathways with Sforza, led by a needlessly fleet-footed page. Sforza was not so swift, being rather older, and struggled to keep up. Uccello kept slowing so as not to leave him behind, and then the page would walk too far ahead of them, notice the distant sound of their footsteps, and then dart back to them, pausing for only moments before his impatience drove him to speed ahead of them again, and the cycle would repeat. It was rather like watching a bird returning over and over to its nest, only considerably less charming. 

By the time they reached their destination (indicated by the page’s outflung hand), Sforza was fighting to keep his breathing under control. A set of doors opened, and Sforza proceeded in, forcing himself to breathe evenly, as though he was unaffected by having to trot through the halls. Uccello did not comment, and he wouldn’t have had the chance to anyway because behind behind the ornate doors was Pope Fabiano II himself, clasping their hands in his, one and then the other. 

“So glad you could make it, Scipione, young Uccello,” he said, as if they could have refused a direct summons. Should he tell the new pope he was permitted to call him Armando? The idea sent a shiver crawling down Uccello’s back. Nobody but Mama Solana called him Armando. 

The pope led them further in to this partitioned-off area of the palace. Upon view of the frescoes decorating every square inch of wall, Uccello realized he’d been in these rooms once before, shortly after he’d been created cardinal. These were the papal apartments, the main and official residence of His Holiness. The previous pope had had a number of tall bookcases which blocked some of the honestly overwhelming number of paintings which formed a riot of color and gold everywhere the eye landed. 

“They’re quite lovely, all these Raphaels,” the pope said. “Julius II had these rooms built because he refused to live in the same quarters as Alexander VI had, believing those rooms to be tainted. They’re below us,” he stomped his foot twice, though the papal slipper made little sound against the marble floor, “Sealed up for a hundred years already. I’m sure there are paintings to behold in there, too... though, what do you think, would it tarnish my papacy if I... well, rather, if /we/ were to open them up to have a look? Still not used to referring to myself—ourself?— in the plural. Heavens, we hope we can get it right for the coronation tomorrow.” 

Uccello blinked. That /couldn’t/ be the only reason the new pope had called him halfway across Rome, to ask his opinion on whether or not he ought to open up a dead pope’s old rooms. 

“Perhaps so early on, your Holiness,” Sforza replied, “you oughtn’t address the Borgia pope’s rooms. You wouldn’t want to be seen as... emulating him.”

The pope clicked his tongue. “Oh alright. He’s been dead a century but alright. This church does have a frightfully long memory.” He bustled to a side table, where a set of gleaming cups and utensils looking like something out of an apothecarist’s sat waiting. One large metal vessel, a sort of squat cylindrical shape standing like a toad on four curved legs, was emitting steam from under its flat lid. 

“Had you ever been invited to partake of this drink before? Apparently, our previous pontiff was rather fond of it. You’ll remember, Scipione, when he blessed it, so that it wasn’t the sole possession of the infidels?” With a towel, His Holiness lifted the lid on the large vessel. To Uccello’s surprise, it was filled with sand. This was supposed to be a beverage? Granted, his favorite drink came in brick form, but this seemed a step too far. “Alright. Let’s see if we can remember how to do this,” the pope murmured to himself. There was an ornate pitcher, what looked like a large pepper mill, some kind of carafe with a long handle, a cone of sugar, a set of delicate spoons, and a silver box with a latch arranged on the tabletop beside the container full of hot sand. “We’ve only just learned how this week, you understand.” He selected a spoon and unlatched the box, then scooped out a heap of dark brown powder, which he then dumped into the long-handled carafe. He took a snip of sugar and added that, too. Then, he poured a measure of water in, gave it a stir with the spoon, took the carafe by the handle, and placed its bottom in the hot sand, pushing the sand around with it as though mixing it, for some reason. In short order, the solution within the carafe began to rise, bubbling and frothing and then spilling over the sides. “Oh dear, I’ve, er, /we’ve/ overdone it,” the pope said, lifting the dripping carafe from the sand and carefully pouring the liquid into a dainty china cup. He repeated the whole process a second time, and this time managed to pour the liquid before it boiled over, and a third time again. “There we are,” he declared, setting the three china cups and their saucers on a silver tray. He sounded very proud of himself. “Let’s see what the Turks say about that, if we’re forced to meet with them in the course of this war they’ve been waging with that odd duck Rudolf II. Holy Roman Emperor, more like Hole in the Roman Coffers, I’d say.” He carried the tray to a low table, surrounded by benches loaded with velvet pillows, where a selection of tarts and canisiones lay waiting. Uccello and Sforza both waited for His Holiness to sit before they did. 

Had he really been invited to the papal apartments just to sample some Turkish drink? The pope took up one of the china cups, a small fluted thing in the popular oriental blue and white decorative style, and Sforza and Uccello followed suit. At the pope’s insistence, they each took a sip. 

Watching Sforza out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the way the man grimaced. It was clear he had tried to hide it, but their host noticed and laughed a little.

“Too bitter for you, Scipione? We know you have quite the sweet tooth. We were surprised you asked to buy a few bottles of Cardinal Priest Peretti’s wine, as your preferences run to the syrupy dessert ones, as we recall,” he teased. Sforza did not answer but reached instead for a canisione to chase away the flavor. To Uccello’s palate, though, the drink was far too sweet, and would probably have been fine without the snip of sugar His Holiness had added. 

“What about you, young Uccello? How do you find this coffee drink?” His Holiness asked, and Uccello swirled the liquid in his cup. 

“Can it be made without the sugar, or is that integral to the composition?” Uccello asked, only to make conversation. Truly, he only wished to leave. The complex frescos reminded him constantly of what he was missing by continuing this social visit, and, if he was honest, he wasn’t even particularly fond of Raphael’s work (what he’d seen of it, anyway). He far preferred the luxuriously deep shadows in Reni’s work, the lush closeness of the subjects, the dramatic focus. This chaos of figures all around him in every imaginable hue nearly made him dizzy. 

Unfortunately, his question only led to a lengthy discussion of the route the coffee seeds took to travel from the East, and then the origin of the china cups, and the sugar from the New World, and how the whole set for making the coffee had been purchased by the previous pontiff, and countless other things Uccello did not care to know. He forced his coffee down, the sugar at the bottom of the cup sticking to his tongue, and nibbled an orange peel tart for something a little less cloying. It was hours later before the pope declared he ought to go prepare for the coronation, and Sforza and Uccello were finally able to leave. 

“What in God’s name was the point of all that?” Sforza grumbled, once they were out in another section of the palace and out of earshot. “When— when I imagined what it was to be pope, I did not picture such vapid wasting of time.” 

Uccello frowned. He’d been under the impression that Sforza and the new pope were old friends. Sforza’s pride was likely still stinging from his loss, and to be invited into the opulent surrounds of the papal apartments as only a guest must have wounded him. 

“Well, I’m sure he only meant to reward his friends. Once he feels the weight of the tiara tomorrow, I’m sure he’ll take the position more seriously,” Uccello offered, attempting to smooth Sforza’s ruffled feathers. Sforza however only scoffed, and shouted sharply to his carriage men once they were outside again. 

Uccello left him to it, walking to fetch Finale from where he’d tied her, pulling her head away from a cluster of flowering weeds. She pressed her ears back. It was the hottest part of the day and she was not interested in more rigorous travel. Inspecting the lengths of the shadows, Uccello uttered a low noise of frustration. By the time the weather cooled off, the streets around Santa Maria Maggiore would be clogged with people traveling to the nearby Archbasilica del Santissimo Salvatore e Santi Giovanni Batista ed Evangelista in Laterano, for Easter Saturday, in preparation for Octave Sunday. Uccello ground his teeth. With the coronation and mass on Octave Sunday, he wouldn’t have time to visit Reni in the chapel until Monday. He swung himself up into Finale’s saddle, resolved to a day and a half of restless anticipation, awaiting his chance to see what Reni had done.

—————

The coronation was a long and exhausting experience. Uccello might have enjoyed it, the procession, the waving crowds, but for the fact he was forced to march in full choir dress, including the lengthy cappa magna which he had to wear wrapped over one arm to avoid tripping. Rodriguez said that coronation processions had employed pages or altar boys to carry the long train of the garment, but with ninety three cardinals, having ninety-three altar boys trailing behind them would have been comically crowded. Either way, the extra fabric, even if it was silk for summer, only made the 2500 canna trek from Basilica di San Giovanni in Laterano to St. Peter’s that much more difficult. 

The cardinals followed behind members of the Papal Court, the Canon Priests of St. Peter’s, and the attending bishops. Behind the cardinals were the ministers of the Pontifical Mass, and behind them, the pope himself, seated on the sedia gestatoria, carried aloft by twelve footmen in red. His Holiness was flanked on either side by huge ostrich feather flabella, and shaded by a small velvet canopy, but vested in alb, amice, stole, cinctum, mantum, and mitre, he likely wasn’t helped by either in the heat. Nonetheless, the new pope smiled and waved to the people of Rome as the procession passed. The cheering crowds were immense, deafeningly loud, and full of red-cheeked excitement. Or perhaps that was sunburn. Uccello thought his own face may grow a bit pink by the end of the day, and then he would freckle prodigiously. He imagined the portrait Reni would insist upon doing of that, rendering each speckle across his nose and cheeks in exacting detail, and chuckled a bit to himself. The sound was drowned out by the madding crowd. 

It took nearly two hours before they reached the steps of St. Peter’s. As the procession entered the narthex, the sedia was placed down by the footmen, and the Canons moved to perform their first obeisance by kissing the pope’s feet. Why this was performed in the anteroom and not in the nave, before the altar, Uccello did not know, but the rite was performed and then the footmen heaved the sedia onto their shoulders again, and the procession entered the basilica’s atrium, to the thunderous sound of trumpets. The fanfare echoed off of the walls, rang off of the columns and mosaics, and when it faded was replaced by the soft pattering of the Pigna Fountain. The procession split around the fountain, and proceeded into the nave, under the new dome. The apse, too, was just a year old, and Uccello wondered what plans this new pope Fabiano Secundus would have for the basilica, which had been under construction for decades, maybe even a century. He certainly was an art lover, this pope. Whether that would be to his credit, as it had been for Julius II, or to his detriment, as it had been for Leo X, Uccello did not yet know. 

The procession paused in the central aisle, and again the sedia was let down. Pope Fabiano II walked alone toward the High Altar, to pray in solitude at the foot of the Cathedra Petri. The old chair, worm-eaten and scarred, once belonged to St. Peter himself. Like the sedia gestatoria resting on the floor behind Uccello, the Cathedra Petri had rings installed on its four legs, so it could be lifted and moved, and, in this brief moment of quiet in the lengthy schedule of the day to think, how fascinating to be part of a rite which had existed for hundreds of years, almost since the time of Christ. Directly ahead of Uccello and the rest of the procession, at the head of the church, was the tomb of Saint Peter. Beneath Uccello’s feet, somewhere in the rubble of history, was Nero’s circus, where Saint Peter had been crucified. It had been Constantine who insisted upon building a basilica over the grave of St. Peter... and Constantine whose ruined baths formed the foundation of Sforza’s palazzo. It was all connected, through the centuries, and Uccello was part of it. 

The pope returned from the head of the church, and the basilica’s choir swelled into song, punctuated again by the trumpets and horns. The sound was amplified by the dome, and Uccello wasn’t sure he’d ever heard anything so loud. Even Pope Fabiano II seemed a bit startled as he walked past the waiting cardinals and everyone else. A page brought a faldstool to keep his cope from crumpling around him, as His Holiness knelt in prayer at the tomb of St. Gregory the Great. There were probably some 200 saints and popes buried in the basilica, the last pope being the most recent. With all the construction, Uccello didn’t know where all of them would end up. He knew some saints and reliquaries had been moved several times in the last few decades, and briefly, Uccello wondered about that process. Did some workman just hoist up the bones of a dead saint and drag them across the basilica to a new resting place? He was jolted from these thoughts by another blast of fanfare as the pope stood from the foot of St. Gregory’s tomb, and made his way to the throne at the high altar, constructed specifically for the coronation. There, he would receive the obeisance of the cardinals. When the pope was seated, Uccello and the rest of the cardinals moved to kneel before him. 

The pope bade them stand, and one by one, they approached His Holiness, and kissed his hand. With ninety-three of them, this took some time, and Uccello was only in the middle of the pack. By the time the last cardinal had returned from the throne, Pope Fabiano II looked a bit weary of the process. The bells rang, and Terce was sung, and then a cadre of psalms, and finally, the vesting. The pope’s assistants surrounded His Holiness, bringing the ostrich feather flabella from the sedia to help block the pontiff from view. Though Uccello couldn’t see it, he knew the pope would dress in an even more elaborate costume than he’d worn for the procession, with more layers still. Thus dressed, he returned to the sedia, his white and gold vestments glittering and glimmering under the light streaming in from the dome. Uccello wished Reni could see it. The artist would probably appreciate the play of light against the fabric, and the deep shadows in the corners of the church.

The pope was carried across the basilica, stopping three times while a bundle of flax was burnt in front of him and the words ‘sic transit gloria mundi’ repeated, to remind the new pontiff that he should accept his role with humility, as servant of the servants of God. Then the sedia arrived at the altar of the tomb of St. Peter. There His Holiness presided over a table with seven candles, facing seven more candles over the altar. Before the candles were four episcopal mitres. Uccello’s own mitre (worn only for Pontifical Mass and thus unfamiliar and uncomfortable) seemed determined to slip to one side. He desperately hoped it wouldn’t fall as he surreptitiously straightened it. At the signal from the Ministers of the Mass, he and the other cardinals retreated to their choir stalls in the apse, and then the pope led another litany of prayers. The senior-most cardinal deacon placed the palladium on the pope’s shoulders, and bade him accept the honors and responsibilities it represented. From there, all that remained was an ordinary papal high mass. Uccello again sang Gloria Excelsis Deo, for the second time in a week, though this time, he found he missed Reni’s deep tone beside him. Instead, he had another cardinal deacon, who was, sadly, fairly off-key. Those gathered received communion, and the pope again returned to the sedia, and the footmen bore him back across the basilica to the throne. 

The versicle prayers were sung, the attending crowd spent a few moments in silent prayer, and then, at last, the pope’s mitre was removed, and that same senior-most deacon replaced it with the papal tiara, its three golden crowns sparkling with precious gems. Any words the senior-most deacon might have said about the meaning, the weight of the crown, was drowned in applause and cheers. Uccello found himself clapping as well. This was the end of the hours-long rite, and now, His Holiness was crowned father of princes and kings, vicar on earth of the Savior, glorious hand of God and shepherd to the flock.

Uccello was filled with thoughts of the saints and martyrs as he returned home. The lives they led, the ways in which they suffered for their faith... or in some cases, even in the case of St. Peter himself, the ways in which they denied the savior and their faith, but were forgiven and redeemed. Apropos of nothing, he remembered Reni’s story of choosing a new name, to reinvent himself, forge a new life. Camilo, ‘temple servant’, and Reni, ‘reborn’. The intention was clear. He smiled to himself. Well, wasn’t St. Peter known as Simon before he came into the service of Christ?

He shared an Octave Sunday dinner with Montreux, and retired to bed, determined to make the trip to Santa Maria Maggiore the following day. 

The weather had improved slightly by Monday morning. Uccello woke for the first time all week comfortably warm in bed rather than plastered to the sheets with sweat. He washed and shaved quickly, dressed in his usual scarlet cassock and mozzetta, and hurried downstairs to throw back his tea. He told Montreux he had no time for breakfast as he strode out the door and through the streets clogged with the first shift of early morning workers. Shopkeepers shouted at their sleepy assistants, mothers sent their daughters to buy eggs and milk, and another week began in the Eternal City. Giuseppe spotted him coming as he approached the stables, and raised a hand in greeting. 

“Good morning, your eminence,” he said, clearly an early riser like Uccello, unbothered by the hour or the hazy shadows cast by the nascent light of dawn. “You certainly have been doing a lot of travel lately. Holy Week, and then the coronation of this new pope. How is he? Do you know him well, Cardinal? Will he treat us well?”

Uccello thought about how to answer. Nobody from the laity had yet asked him his opinion of Pope Fabiano II. 

“Interestingly, he occupied my seat at the Curia directly before I assumed office,” Uccello replied, as Giuseppe went to fetch his saddle and bridle. “His Holiness is...” How should he describe Fabiano Secundus, as a man? “I think, he is best defined by his sense of humor,” Uccello stated. “He’s been abroad a number of years, and has only recently returned to Rome, but in that time, I haven’t yet seen him in a foul mood.”

Giuseppe heaved Finale’s saddle over a low fence, and led the horse out of her stable. She nickered softly at Uccello and bumped her nose against his chest, seeking a treat. Indulgently, he fed her a snip of sugar, carried in his pocket just for her, from his palm. Giuseppe brushed her briefly in the meanwhile, and smoothed a blanket over her back. 

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” the groom said. “I’m old enough to remember a few firebrand popes. I think we could use a more even-tempered one, for a change.” 

He cinched the saddle, then came around to fasten the bridle. 

“Where are you off to today, then? Eastertide duties?” Giuseppe asked, lifting the leather straps over Finale’s expressive ears. 

“I don’t know if I’ve mentioned, I’ve commissioned a large fresco for one of the basilicas, and am today headed to meet with the artist, and check on his progress.” Uccello stroked Finale’s nose once the bridle was in place. Such a pretty horse, he thought. Probably the loveliest in the stable, anyway. Even if she was a bit spoiled. 

Giuseppe nodded, patting Finale on the neck. “Well I hope you’re pleased with his work, then,” the groom replied. Uccello hummed an affirmative before swinging himself up into the saddle. 

“Take care,” he told the man, before setting off at a brisk pace toward the basilica. 

Halfway to Santa Maria Maggiore he realized he was perhaps driving Finale a bit too fast for the city streets, and reined her in a little. The slower pace gave him time to reflect: why had he been pushing her to go faster? It wasn’t as if he expected Reni would leave at this hour, and Uccello would miss him. He fully expected the man to have slept in the chapel. Perhaps he was simply anxious. He didn’t know what to expect, though he’d seen several preparatory drawings. What if he didn’t like how Reni had handled it? He’d only seen the man’s work on canvas and paper, really. Fresco was an entirely different animal. 

Uccello chewed his lips. Reni’s other work had been... well, it was beautiful. It was realistic, but emotive, with lush shadows and sinuous flesh. He wouldn’t have gone this far in the process if he didn’t have confidence in Reni’s skills. 

He was excited to see it. He’d waited... it didn’t matter how long, but he wanted to see what Reni had come up with. And he hadn’t seen Reni in a week, either, even though previously the man had seen fit to make himself at home in Uccello’s house. For the past week, Uccello had halfway expected to come home and find Reni at his table, already partway through dinner. It hadn’t happened yet, and Uccello had to assume the man was so absorbed with working on the painting that he’d essentially cloistered himself in the chapel. 

Tying Finale where he usually did, Uccello walked up the steps into the narthex of the basilica. He nodded to a pair of priests as they passed. He’d somewhat wondered if he’d see the bishop, but did not encounter him as he made his way to the left transept and up to the barricade Reni had installed. He knocked against the gate. 

“Reni? Master Reni, are you awake yet?” he called out, wincing at the way his voice echoed into the nave. There was a crash in the chapel, and a string of curses that surely should /not/ be uttered in a house of God, and then Reni’s distinctive, echoing footfalls. Uccello chuckled to himself. A week apart had not changed Reni’s affect in the slightest. 

The man’s face appeared in a part in the curtain. 

“It is you. I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten me,” Reni said, though he started shifting the parts of his barricade aside, for Uccello to pass. It took some time. 

“Of course not. I have been a bit busy, you know. Change of government, you may recall. New head of our church, vicar of God on earth, all that,” Uccello bickered back, and Reni huffed a quiet laugh. 

“Right, that little thing. I suppose that’s /some/ excuse for being away so long.” 

Uccello rolled his eyes as Reni shoved a wooden pallet out of the way, and pushed open the gate. Uccello stepped through the curtain where Reni held it open, and looked up at the painting. His heart nearly stopped. It froze in his chest, and his fingers went numb with sudden fear. 

There was Bathsheba, up to her calves in the water, pulling up her chemise as she prepared to bathe. There was King David behind her, staring with openly hungry eyes. Most of the room in which they stood, the covered rooftop bath, had not yet been painted in, but the face. The /face/. Bathsheba’s eyes were cast down at the water, demurely, pale eyelashes against her cheeks. Her hair, tied up in a cloth to keep it out of the water, was red. The face Reni had painted onto Bathsheba was one Uccello would recognize anywhere, not just because Reni had drawn it countless times, but because it was his own. 

He couldn’t speak. His arms felt useless, gelatinous. His gut felt sour. How could Reni do this?! How could he... he hadn’t given Bathsheba much in the way of breasts, either, so she could easily, easily be a man. Not any man, either, but Uccello himself, in nothing but a thin shirt, wading into a bathing pool like some kind of coquette, and there was King David, lusting after Uccello’s own form, like a damned /sodomite/. It was blasphemy, and it nearly made Uccello dizzy, first with panic, then with rage. He couldn’t even look at Reni. He prayed to God no one else had seen this. 

“What... what is the meaning of this?!” he hissed. It didn’t near approach the level of emotion he felt. It was a wholly inadequate question to address the immensity of the situation. “How... why would you... do you wish to ruin me? Do you want to be skewered and dragged through the streets by the Inquisition? What /is/ this?!” 

Uccello took two steps toward the painting, then diverted to the left, and then the right. He paced anxiously, unsure of what to do with himself. His panic was rising like a cold wave, swelling in the distant sea, building, and it would soon break and dash itself against the cliffs. When that happened, Uccello did not know if he’d be able to control himself. He might attack Reni, or he might collapse into an insensate heap on the floor. His footsteps echoed in the room as he flushed cold and hot with terror, and blinding fury.

Reni was quiet for a long time, but Uccello felt him drawing near. His nails bit into his palms as he resisted the desire to fling out his hands, strike Reni across the face, possibly with more ferocity than he had hit the cardinal who’d called him a bastard whoreson. Somehow, this betrayal felt infinitely worse than any insult from a member of the cardinalate. He’d already known what they thought of him. This... somehow, he hadn’t expected this from Reni. Perhaps he should have, by God, for all things on Earth and in Heaven seemed destined to prove to him... friends and confidantes he could not have. Could he truly trust /no one/? Despair spread within him like a poison, curdling his stomach. He felt ill. He felt /used/. 

“I needed...” Reni tried, so close Uccello could feel his breath on his cheek, on his neck. It was so much like the way they’d woken on Easter morning that Uccello had to close his eyes, fight down the rising tide of feelings within him. This was a capital betrayal, of Uccello’s patronage, his trust, his goddamned /friendship/. Uccello didn’t understand it. He had thought... they’d become so close. Why would Reni seek to destroy him? Had one of the other cardinals paid him off? It sounded ludicrous, but he could think of no other reason for this sudden treachery, this... this grave insult. Uccello chewed his lips until they hurt, jaw aching with the effort to remain silent. If he shouted Reni down, called upon all the fire and vengeance boiling within him, the bishop and every priest in the basilica would come running, and then they, too, would be party to this terrible truth. He wanted to chisel the plaster away himself. He wanted to burn the image from the wall. 

“I needed to make her beautiful,” Reni said, quiet, desperate. “So beautiful, she’d tempt a man to sin.”

In the ringing silence following these words, Uccello’s heart seized, hardened like a stone. He actually clutched at his chest, and the pectoral cross about his neck dug into the flesh of his hand. He felt cold, and knew that he was shaking. 

“My God,” he croaked. He hadn’t... hadn’t realized. How, how could Reni lay this, too, at his feet? This audacious sin? He almost couldn’t believe it. Why him? Why at all? It shocked him to his core. He couldn’t decide which was worse: the idea that Reni despised him enough to ruin his reputation, or the apparent truth that Reni... desired him enough to do the same. His body flushed and he felt sweat pricking in the creases of his flesh. 

Unable to help himself, he turned toward Reni, expression pinched and wounded. Reni stood so close, and his eyes were so black. It wasn’t the look of envious lust he’d painted on the face of King David, but still Uccello wanted to claw at him, wanted to tear his own hair out. How could this be happening? Reni’s eyes said it all. He was no King David. A king, but for the command of the Almighty, could have, could take anything he wanted. Reni’s eyes said he knew he could not. He knew he was confessing an unforgivable transgression, one which could end them both. He knew that what he wanted was unattainable, impossible, unconscionable. He seemed to be in pain, flayed open by his admission. His lips trembled, but still, as though he had nothing left to lose, one of his large, talented hands came up, hesitantly, slowly, and touched Uccello’s jaw. He’d touched Uccello like this, gently, tenderly, many times. How had... Uccello shook his head. He couldn’t reconcile this, any of it. Reni sucked in a breath, swallowed. He barely blinked. His thumb traced the ridge of Uccello’s cheek bone and the friction of his rough thumb seared like a punitive brand. Uccello opened his mouth to say something, anything, to call down damnations in Reni’s soul, but Reni only leaned almost imperceptibly closer, his eyes flickering down to Uccello’s lips, and Uccello suddenly moved, with great effort, slapping Reni’s hand away sharply, swiftly. His own hand stung from the impact.

“How dare you,” he spat. He stared at the marble floor, the pattern of tile beneath Reni’s worn boots. He couldn’t bear to look at the man’s face just then. He burned, inside and out, because, for the barest moment, he’d thought, he’d /imagined/ what it would be to allow Reni his indulgence. Uccello had found himself drawn in to the depths of those eyes, the anguish within them. Why, O God, did this happen? He couldn’t, simply couldn’t allow it to go on for a second longer, and he couldn’t be in the man’s presence another moment, either. His body was not responding correctly. He felt as if he was moving through sand, everything slowed and far too effortful. Most of all, he couldn’t stand to look up at his own visage anymore, smiling, inviting King David into depravity. 

“Fix your mistake,” he demanded, not bothering to even speak of the consequences if this was found out, before pushing the curtain aside and nearly running out of the basilica. He didn’t stop for anyone or anything. He drove Finale to a canter through the streets, diving around carts and carriages like a madman. He didn’t speak to Giuseppe when he got to the stables, only slid off of Finale’s back near the tack shed, thrust her reins into the hands of a stable boy, and stomped off. 

He was still fuming when he arrived home. He threw the door open and it banged loudly against the wall, startling Montreux who was knelt on the floor of the main room, the rug rolled up and the chairs pushed to the walls so he could scrub beneath them. Uccello almost regretted that; he had a lunatic urge to pick up one of his chairs and dash it against the walls until it cracked into splinters. 

“Er, you have a l-letter, sir,” Montreux stuttered, quailing away from the ferocious look on Uccello’s face. Uccello’s eyes landed on the folded paper lying on the side table. 

“God in Heaven, what /now/?!” Uccello seethed, cracking the seal savagely. The wax bore no monogram, and he smoothed the letter impatiently. As soon as he saw the handwriting, his brows furrowed. It was shakier than he remembered it. Though he’d been unable to read then, he’d seen the looping script many times as a child, and, several times since, as an adult, though he never received correspondence. He read the short letter once, twice, three times before his overtaxed mind even understood the words. 

The letter was from Mama Solana, and she was dying. 

He barely remembered flying out of the house again, hiring a coach at immense expense, and giving directions to his tiny seaside village. It didn’t catch up to him until he was already on the rough, rocky road that led there. If the coachman stayed true to his word, and drove hard all morning and into the afternoon, Uccello would be at Mama Solana’s side before nightfall. He could think of little else but getting to her before it was too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy this art by my partner. He’s imagined it as an oil sketch Reni might have done of Uccello in that damning pose as Bathsheba.

**Author's Note:**

> More to come. I've tagged this "explicit" because it will be eventually, and I don't want anyone uninterested in that kind of content to start in on it not knowing!
> 
> Also please see THE BEAUTIFUL ART my partner did of Uccello (note: must be logged in to tumblr). More art with later chapters


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